


this is the last time, I'll say a million more times

by UnderneathAnotherTree (underneaththewalnuttree), underneaththewalnuttree



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Mostly Canon Compliant, Not too angsty, moderately slow-burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underneaththewalnuttree/pseuds/UnderneathAnotherTree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/underneaththewalnuttree/pseuds/underneaththewalnuttree
Summary: Veronica has made what she acknowledges is considerable progress in her mission of becoming an objectively good person. But what Cheryl is—mean, contemptuous, hyper-critical—is what Veronica used to be. And when she’s prompted to defend herself against some demeaning allegation, lapsing back is really, really easy.Cheryl smiles, much too casually, and begins. “As a firsthand witness to your ill-advised, gratuitous lip-lock with Betty Cooper at the Vixen tryouts, I assume you have no qualms about kissing girls?”Veronica lapses back. Because it’s easy.“No qualms about kissing girls,” she responds with a shrug. “Many qualms about kissing the winner of hell’s Jessica Rabbit look-alike contest.”-Or, three times Veronica spins the bottle. And Betty's reaction each time.





	1. Spin #1: Cheryl

Every crush is, by nature, inconvenient. Veronica is well aware of that, so when she meets Betty Cooper and Archie Andrews at Pop’s Diner upon her arrival in Riverdale, and feels an instant draw to the world they’ve built in the years they’ve shared, she recognizes it with dismay; she’s developing a really inopportune crush—on both of them, no less. 

In her first day at Riverdale High, she’s baffled to know that the girl who kind of knocked the breath from her lungs at that diner isn’t who she expected at all. She assumed the hot blonde girl on a date with the cute ginger boy to be more or less running the school; instead, she finds that she’s a shy, earnest outsider pushed to the social sidelines by Cheryl “Bombshell” Blossom–-a bitchy, Machiavellian mean girl. Cheryl quite immediately gravitates towards Veronica, probably recognizing the political sharpness and social cunning that polished Veronica into the person she is; the person she doesn’t want to be anymore. Back in New York, Veronica carried the sort of destructiveness around her that chilled every environment she ever stepped in, and she sees how Cheryl has directed all her energy into becoming this same type of person, and she wishes she could convince her that it isn’t worth it. 

While she navigates the dual task of avoiding what comes naturally to her—befriending someone like Cheryl—and trying her best to fit into the group that she wants to belong in—Betty, Archie, and Kevin—Veronica wills herself to believe that she can be a good person, and that she’s not going to ruin the beginnings of her friendship with people who are actually nice. 

In those first few hours of her settling in at Riverdale, she’s still teetering between Betty and Archie, her attraction oscillating between the boy and the girl even when she realizes that they’re actually meant for each other, not her.

Then, things take an unexpected turn. 

It’s not the kiss she surprises Betty with at cheer tryouts, or the kiss with Archie in the closet. It’s the aftermath of Cheryl Blossom’s party: the ensuing schism between her and Betty and the feeling of utter hopelessness brought on by losing someone to whom she had already gotten way more attached than she could have anticipated, and the awful sensation of having really, really messed up her entire life in a moment (or seven minutes) of recklessness.

Veronica had hurt people for sport, before. She came to Riverdale determined to be a different, better person, but she hadn’t really known what that looked like, until she crossed paths with Betty. Veronica’s never met anyone less deserving of cruelty than this girl, who’s disarmingly optimistic, distractingly beautiful, and tragically unaware of her own strength and potential. It’s this girl, with her goodness and lack of malice and unwavering belief in the decency of people, who can anchor Veronica when her thoughts turn dark, and her old instincts threaten to come barging in to take over her life again. 

Before she goes to sleep that night, Veronica stands at her balcony, shoulders tensed by an unfamiliar, uneasy disappointment. She gazes into the star-speckled distance, wondering how many hours or days it would take to reach New York by foot. When she closes her eyes and breathes in a lungful of chilly, pristine Riverdale air, it’s Betty’s unassuming smile that she sees, almost as though it’s been engraved inside her eyelids. For all the nighttime darkness enveloping her, recalling memories of happier times with Betty is a lot like watching a particularly brilliant, warm sunrise emerge from the horizon.

This is when her heart seems to make its choice clear to her. 

There is indeed an attraction to Archie. But clearly, there is something much realer, stronger, and deeper inside her, pulsing for Betty, and it’s asking her, this is it, isn’t it? This is the girl for you. This is the person you want. She’s not going to have eyes for anyone else—she knows this as firmly as she knows her own name. She met Betty and, really, she never had a chance.

She gives herself some time to process this, to understand herself and her feelings, and to come to terms with liking someone who’s already poured her hopes and dreams for the future into someone else. She’s never been in this position—the one on the unrequited side of feelings—but it’s not like she can fight Archie for Betty. She understands what Archie’s appeal is; she was right there experiencing his pull herself, just a short twenty-four hours ago. So she knows what Betty sees, and imagines that magnified by the thousand moments they’d already shared before she even stepped foot in the town, and she understands. She doesn’t resent it. Archie is a great, good-natured guy; a much better match for Betty than she could ever be.

And the thing is, for the past few months, she’s had to get used to carrying a daily burden weighing down her spirit, of wanting things she can’t have—she wants her dad to be with her, she wants the comfort of wealth again, she wants her old life in New York back—so she thinks she’s well-equipped to be in this constant state of wanting Betty and not having her. The most important thing here is to ensure Betty is in her life, in whatever capacity she can manage, and never jeopardize their bond again. She vows never to hurt Betty, even if preserving Betty’s feelings means hurting her own.

Despite her complete inexperience in asking people to forgive her for something—seriously, she doesn’t think she’s ever had to beg for someone’s friendship—Veronica manages to win her way back into Betty’s trust. The Magnolia cupcakes and yellow roses ("for friendship") don't do much, but her moment with Cheryl in the Jason-dedicated pep rally does. It’s a glorious high, getting a second chance to do this right, and be the kind of friend that Betty deserves. She buries the entirety of her non-platonic feelings deep inside her, and goes to great lengths to keep them out of sight, uninvolved in her day-to-day interactions with her friend. She focuses on ensuring Betty’s happiness, on protecting her from the less savory parts of the world. She makes a promise to herself every day, when Betty gives her bright, open smiles, and Veronica feels like the sun has swallowed her, that this is okay, and she will be okay. 

Betty is Archie’s. They are endgame. And she will be okay.

-

It’s Thursday night and Veronica is adjusting to the plush couch at the Blossom residence’s living room, squeezed between Betty and Reggie. There really is no reason for this post-game get-together—the Bulldogs lost the game, after all—and she’s pondering on how Cheryl isn’t the kind of party host that will ever promote a normal, non-dramatic game for her guests, like Monopoly, or Life, or poker, when unexpectedly she’s chosen by the redhead to give the bottle its first spin. “ _Of course_ ,” she sighs with displeasure when she reaches for the bottle, trying her hardest to keep from rolling her eyes. And then the bottle spins, and spins, and spins, and slows to a halt, pointing to a surprised Archie, and Veronica does roll her eyes this time, wondering briefly if the universe just wants to fuck with her.

“Um. No.” She delivers her words with some finality, throwing a defiant look at Cheryl and avoiding looking at Betty because she doesn’t want a reminder that any apprehension in the girl's part is because of her feelings for Archie, and not her.

Veronica is ready to be snappy, to be rude, to verbally bitchslap Cheryl to avoid repeating that disastrous incident in the closet with Archie. But whatever Veronica expected from Cheryl, it definitely wasn’t for the cheer captain to grin gleefully, make her way to her, grab her hand, and pull her to her feet.

“Game rules—the host is the replacement.” Right; she had forgotten that. Saying no to the bottle's designated closet partner meant saying yes to Cheryl.

While the redhead leads them, Veronica throws one bewildered peek behind her, to Archie and Betty, who meet her gaze with alarm and worry, respectively. By the time she turns to face Cheryl once again, they’re already inside the closet and the girl is closing the door behind them. Now that she’s locked inside it with someone she’s not that fond of, the closet seems a lot less hospitable than last time she was here with Archie, like the walls have closed in, the light bulb's gone faint, and the floor is unstable. Some part of her brain is straining her peripheral vision, searching for a potential alternative exit should the need arise for one. She's sighing inwardly as she braces herself for the usual components of every interaction she has with this girl: sharp, belittling taunts, and the occasional conspiratorial comment meant to stir trouble between her and Betty. Not that any of that is ever really effective; the worst name Cheryl could ever call her would probably be one of the lighter insults she heard in New York, the city that gave her emotional armor. Also, she and Betty are pretty rock-solid nowadays; any attempt from Cheryl to spark another civil war would be futile.

Still, this is not an entirely comfortable circumstance. Veronica has made what she acknowledges is considerable progress in her mission of becoming an objectively good person. But what Cheryl is—mean, contemptuous, hyper-critical—is what Veronica used to be. And when she’s prompted to defend herself against some demeaning allegation, lapsing back is really, really easy.

Cheryl smiles, much too casually, and begins. “As a firsthand witness to your ill-advised, gratuitous lip-lock with Betty Cooper at the Vixen tryouts, I assume you have no qualms about kissing girls?”

Veronica lapses back. Because it’s easy.

“No qualms about kissing girls,” she responds with a careless shrug. “Many qualms about kissing the winner of hell’s Jessica Rabbit look-alike contest.”

Cheryl’s smile widens, eyes bright with excitement. She’s not used to being insulted, and she likes it, for some reason that kind of baffles Veronica. Her voice turns sultry and predatory, as though this were some game of seduction. “The rumors are very persistent that in your past life as a pre-scandal, carefree inhabitant of the vibrant metropolis of New York, you had habitually ventured—dipped your toes, I should say—into the lady pond.”

Veronica raises an eyebrow when she picks up what Cheryl is digging around for. Her bisexuality isn’t something she’s ever really hidden from anyone; it just hasn’t come up with Betty, Archie, Kevin, or anyone else in Riverdale.

She deflects, because Cheryl is a dimmer bulb than she thinks she is. “Do you always talk as though you’re auditioning for the role of a teenage Lady Macbeth?”

“Will you, Veronica Lodge, ever run out of literary references to drop in casual conversation?” Cheryl fires back, with some cheek that makes Veronica smile, appreciating this despite herself. Cheryl takes a small step forward and continues, watching her with something akin to enthusiasm, “you’re my intellectual equal, Veronica. I have not met another since my brother’s passing. We share a great many traits, you know. And I’m sympathetic to the small indignities you must suffer as a newly-acquired member of the lower class.”

And there it is. The reason why, despite how nice it is to be equally-matched in bitchiness with someone here, Veronica doesn’t actually want to be Cheryl’s friend.

“Are you? Sympathetic?” Veronica asks with amusement. “Because it sounds more like condescension to me.”

“It’s the most natural inflection of my voice, unfortunately,” Cheryl dismisses quickly, eyes not meeting Veronica’s because they are currently scanning her face in what seems like a deep study of her features. It’s only a tad unnerving. Cheryl takes another step forward; Veronica stands her ground uneasily. “I have to say, for a less perfect version of me, you have a most strange allure.”

“Thanks… that’s what I’ve always strived to be— _strangely alluring_ ,” Veronica responds flatly. “Out of curiosity, have you ever given anyone a compliment without preambling it with an insult?”

Cheryl finally raises her eyes to meet hers with another smile that, shockingly, actually looks sincere. “And where would be the fun in that?” Another step forward and now Veronica is really, really tempted to cede some territory and take a step away from the redhead, but she resists, and stays in place. 

And now they’re really, really close. 

“We are…” Cheryl glances down at the cellphone currently serving as a stopwatch, “exactly 4 minutes and 40 seconds into our allotted seven. Does time not mercilessly fly by when engrossed in riveting banter?”

“I would term this a less-than-amicable exercise in verbal sparring but yes,” Veronica replies, sarcasm flowing freely now, “time is indeed ‘mercilessly flying by.’”

The girl is absolutely nonplussed, and indeed, is very obviously enjoying their little battle, reinforcing to Veronica that this a different kind of attraction, whatever it is that Cheryl is feeling towards her. This is a lot like flirting, except that, contrary to what Cheryl might believe, it’s not being prompted by physical attraction. Instead, it’s some kind of fascination, like Cheryl recognizes just enough of Veronica to sense a familiarity and possible camaraderie, while still being thrown by the parts that are completely foreign to her—like why she's bonded with Betty, Veronica guesses. And it’s probably this brand of curiosity that’s making Cheryl study her so intently, eyes finally dropping to Veronica’s lips.

Seven minutes in heaven. Veronica had almost forgotten the game they’re supposed to be playing.

“We only have a few rapidly-disappearing moments, Veronica. And you’re aware of what we must do.”

Veronica offers an exaggerated grimace. “Oh, must we?” The humor in this situation can’t be ignored; her mind is already rehearsing telling this story to Betty and Kevin, of the time she and Satanic Lucille Ball were stuck in a closet together and almost kissed purely out of spite for one another.

There is a fleeting moment of silence, and while Veronica is gearing up to initiate another round of insults, since this seems to be their most natural method of communication, the girl in front of her maintains her gaze on her mouth.

“I have a strong intuition that you’re very good at it.” She's speaking softly, and doesn’t clarify what the “it” is, because she doesn’t need to. Veronica opens her mouth to throw back some smartass reply, but then Cheryl does raise her eyes to meet her own, and adds in equal parts acid and genuine admiration, “Archie and Betty must have really enjoyed themselves.”

Veronica flinches.

She doesn’t mean to. She hates the way her body seems to have betrayed her in such an obvious way. And she loathes Cheryl’s immediate victorious smirk even more. The redhead loves the exchange of insults but really, her bigger satisfaction will always come from watching Veronica squirm and be uncomfortable. There’s a millisecond in which Veronica is swept by a steely determination—that if she’s going to lose a battle to win a war, then she will lose the Lodge way, by fighting all the way down. And fight she does.

She leans forward, tilting her head in the slightest of degrees, and presses her lips against Cheryl’s. The girl releases a tiny, barely-perceptible gasp—of course she didn’t anticipate Veronica to actually kiss her—and Veronica pushes her gently against the wall closest to them, one hand applying the lightest of pressure on the girl’s hip while the other entangles itself in the long, elaborately-styled flame-colored hair. Her tongue slides quite easily into Cheryl’s mouth, licking and tasting something sweet and fruity. Some small corner of her brain attempts to figure out what the taste is (candy? Juice?) but all her attention is then diverted to the realization that Cheryl is finally pushing back against her, a motion or two prior to an actual kiss. Veronica barely registers the sensation; about a second later, the cellphone is vibrating and blaring an obnoxious tone to announce that their seven minutes are up.

Veronica pulls back, pursing her lips to conceal the smug smile that wants to curve her features. She studies Cheryl’s hilariously blatant look of alarm and almost bursts into a chuckle. Her lipstick is very lightly smudged, of course, and either she’s blushing something fierce, or she’s having an allergic reaction.

Choosing to believe the former, Veronica calmly cleans off what she imagines is her own smudged lipstick. “Yes, they do tend to enjoy themselves.”

Wordlessly, she opens the door and nonchalantly steps out of the closet, aware that Cheryl is following her. When she sits down, choosing to sandwich herself between Josie and Betty (who, by the way, could win an award for being the most unsubtle about her concern), she only has a brief moment to mull over one last time whether kissing Cheryl was a good idea, and another to admire Cheryl’s quick recovery—she’s already back to her usual condescending grin—before the redhead speaks up, addressing the curious gazes.

Or rather, one in particular, to whom she directs a pointed smile with ill-concealed malice, like poisoned sugar. “Don’t worry, Betty. You’re still the _first_ girl she kissed in Riverdale.”

Oh. Not a good idea, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this between episodes 5 and 6, so I guess it's mostly canon-compliant up until those two episodes.
> 
> If you squint, you will see some Cheronica throughout this fic, but my heart is ultimately loyal to Beronica, the OTP that's been ruining my life and has inspired me to post my first fic.
> 
> The title is a modified verse from one of my favorite songs, Ryn Weaver's "Promises." Definitely worth checking out.


	2. Friday

It's an odd Friday morning for Betty. There's some lack of sleep she can attribute to the unwise hour the Bulldogs' post-defeat party dragged to last night, but Betty is not particularly tired. A subtle but noticeable Blossom parental presence meant that there was no alcohol to be consumed, so she isn't hungover either. Still, something feels off. _Has_ been feeling off since last night, come to think of it. And she can't quite pinpoint why.

She carries a vague, uneasy, bothersome weight in her stomach all morning; from the time she readies herself for the school day ahead, to the moment she lays open a notebook on her desk at homeroom.

A long-established nervous habit prompts her to tighten her ponytail, when abruptly, her eyes are dragged to the doorway. An intricately-braided crown of flame-red hair bursts into her field of vision. Something twists in the space between her throat and her chest, and that weight in her stomach gets heavier.

_Game rules—the host is the replacement._

Kevin's plop beside her snaps her attention; her gaze is directed in his general direction but is completely unfocused, as she observes in the corner of her eye Cheryl cheerily settling into one of the classroom's first seats.

"Would you believe me if I told you I finished our homework literally 5 minutes before I left my house this morning? The horrors of procrastination, fully displayed in a hastily-assembled mess of a paper."

Wine-red lipstick, capriciously applied.

"Feel the paper. It's still warm from the printer."

Smeared approximately a quarter of an inch below the bottom lip.

 _You're still the_ first _girl she kissed in Riverdale._

A smug grin, eyes locked with Betty’s.

It’s like she’s feeling it all over again, the curiously strong flip-flop in her stomach that was her gut's reaction to the sight of Cheryl Blossom in the same position Betty herself had been in: on the receiving end of Veronica Lodge's lips.

"Betty?"

The call of her name yanks her back to the impatient boy beside her. Betty isn't quite sure where her thoughts are, or where they were going. It's almost as though something in her is purposely concealing a path her mind wants to follow. This isn't an entirely foreign sensation—she's had some problems with her thought processes before—but the context of this is new. It has to do with Veronica. And Cheryl. And she doesn't understand it.

She clears her throat and offers a weak smile. "Sorry, Kev. What were you saying?"

Kevin never gets a chance to repeat himself, as their teacher is quick to select Betty and Kevin as the first presenters for their US history project. She's worked on her part of the assignment almost obsessively. She knows everything; every date and location, every important figure. There is no reason for her to feel nervous, as there is no way she will make a mistake.

And yet.

As she makes her way in between seats and nears the front of the class, she hears it, as distinctly as she hears her own thoughts. Cheryl Blossom's high, posh, self-satisfied voice. "Gosh, I love the smell of failure in the morning."

-

**BCoop: I just got partnered with Archie for statistics. He’s awful. I’m not expecting a good grade :(**

_V_Lo: C’s get degrees :)_

Betty purses her lips to contain the smile that would most certainly cause her clandestine texting in class to be noticed. This statistics teacher is not particular forgiving, and Archie is attempting to steal some looks at her cellphone screen, but Betty’s skills in discretion have improved dramatically since befriending Veronica.

**BCoop: How’s English?**

_V_Lo: We’ve gotten to that point of the year wherein Shakespeare is inevitable. With my luck, I’m going to get stuck with Romeo and Juliet_

**BCoop: Not a fan?**

_V_Lo: Oh no, I love me a good tale of prepubescent infatuation with a bonus double-suicide ending_

Betty coughs in order to cover a laugh.

**BCoop: Only you would talk crap about the father of our language**

_V_Lo: That’s a debatable statement, as there is a sizable consensus that Chaucer is the true father of our language_

Had they been having this conversation face-to-face, Betty knows Veronica’s expression would have been one of utmost conviction, as is always the case when she’s discussing literature. And the fact that she knows this, knows that this is who Veronica is and how she thinks, it sends a warm, fond sensation through her. 

**BCoop: Whenever I forget why you're a sophomore and already are taking AP English, you’re nice enough to remind me**

_V_Lo: Okay, okay, I promise I won’t be a lit snob_

**BCoop: I have a feeling you'll break that promise 0.2 seconds after we step foot in NY tomorrow and you start quoting every book written about that city**

Her smile widens as she types her last text, remembering their plan for tomorrow--a trip "to the homeland" conceived with boundless enthusiasm by Veronica when she found out that Betty's next US History assignment is a paper on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. 

(The memory makes her want to laugh: "Betty, this happened in New York! In Washington Square Park! I can take you to the literal place where the flames consumed the building and the women's labor rights movement beg--" "I don't think anyone is actually going anywhere to do their research besides a Wikipedia page." "You help me with all my math homework and won't even allow me to take a peek at any of your English papers, which is highly unfair. In the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson--" "Okay, fine; take me to New York.")

_V_Lo: We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us_

**BCoop: I won't even ask**

_V_Lo: John Steinbeck, the love of my life had I been born a hundred years ago_

She bites her lip this time to contain a smile, but is momentarily distracted from her conversation with Veronica when she notices that Archie has mixed-up his percentages for quartiles in his notes. When she turns back to her phone, she already has two unread texts.

_V_Lo: UGH_

_V_Lo: We were all going around picking papers from a hat to see what play we have to write our essays on and the universe clearly is out to spite me today, because guess what play I got?_

**BCoop: The awesome tale of prepubescent infatuation with a bonus double suicide ending?**

_V_Lo: God hates me_

**BCoop: You’ll live**

It’s Veronica’s turn to delay a response, and while she awaits for her friend’s text, Betty takes the time to explain the difference between permutations and combinations to Archie. A few minutes later, she feels her phone vibrate and glances down at the screen. 

_V_Lo: You can definitely rethink that… there were 2 copies of each paper inside the hat, so we could be partnered with whoever gets the same play_

_V_Lo: Feel free to guess who ended up getting the other Romeo and Juliet paper from the hat and is now my partner_

Betty racks her mind to remember whether she knows anyone noteworthy among the AP English students.

Archie interrupts her musings to ask, “Betty, do you know what that squiggly thing is?” 

She glances quickly at the board and knows exactly which portion is confusing Archie. “It’s ‘mu,’ the Greek letter for population mean,” is her prompt reply, before she resumes the more important task of figuring out who Veronica’s partner is.

“I appreciate you explaining it to me, Betty,” Archie thanks earnestly a minute later. Although surprised with the boy’s placement in this class to begin with, Betty is glad to have a friend here at all. “Last time I had a hard math class, my partner was Cheryl Blossom.” Betty automatically winces at the thought of having the Antichrist for a math partner. She’s about to comment on the imagined horror of the situation, when Archie continues with a relieved shake of his head, “I’m glad this year she’s in AP English instead.”

That image forcibly injects itself into her thoughts again—Cheryl, exiting the closet, smug grin, lipstick smudged, eyes locked with Betty’s. 

Reluctantly she glances down at her lap, dreading a confirmation of all the things she’s hating about this day.

_V_Lo: Too tough to guess? I will give you a hint: she’s the love child of Satan and Leeloo from the Fifth Element_

Betty recoils from her phone and shakes her thoughts clear.

“You’re welcome, Archie. I’m glad we’re partners, too,” she reassures, voice strained under the effort to sound upbeat.

Mentally, she rehearses a good reply to text to her other friend. Something about how fortunate Veronica is to be partnered with another literature prodigy. Something about how she and Cheryl are so similar and will work together so well. Something about…

 _You're still the_ first _girl she kissed in Riverdale._

Hastily, she shoves her phone back into her backpack and takes a deeper breath than strictly necessary. 

-

Thankfully, third period is for extra cheerleading practices only on Mondays and Thursdays; this being a Friday, Betty’s third period is dedicated to her student journalism extra-curricular with Jughead at the Riverdale _Blue and Gold_ , and she busies herself with summaries of the week’s notable events to divert her attention from Veronica and Cheryl. Jughead, meanwhile, murmurs complaints about being charged with the week’s sports column—which, truthfully, is just football.

By the end of the period, she feels significantly more at ease; a side-effect of engaging in something she truly enjoys with a friend whose every other word doesn’t remind her of the two girls she’s trying so intently to forget about.

Later, she settles down beside Kevin at their usual lunch table and unpacks a sandwich and an apple, listening to Kevin’s dramatic tale of being hit on by Moose through a hilariously explicit text. Veronica’s laugh in the distance grabs her attention, and when Betty looks up, she takes in the approaching girl; the poster child for out-of-place sophistication, clad in an impeccably-tailored black and white dress, balancing a luxury purse, cellphone, and a water bottle while strolling through the campus in self-assured, high-heeled steps. Betty feels it, just like everyone else does, the gravity field surrounding Veronica, the pull she exerts over everyone.

"—and of course, I couldn't just leave it at that, so I told him that if a migraine was a person, it would be him.” Archie chuckles while Jughead nods in agreement, and Betty is slightly shocked that she hadn’t really noticed they had been walking towards them, too. Veronica sits down directly in front of her with an easy smile. “Hey Betty, how's the day going?"

The lipstick. Betty is no expert in shades of lipstick, but she recognizes this particular one—a red on the deeper end of the spectrum, like the inside of a grapefruit. And she remembers where she saw it last.

_Game rules._

Betty swallows down a painful flutter in her chest. "Great. How about yours?"

Archie expresses an apology when he finds that he has to rush off for an impromptu football meeting, and Jughead hesitantly follows because covering football is understandably more palatable if a friend is involved.

Kevin utilizes the pause in conversation as an opening to comment with enthusiasm, “Betty and I were about to immerse ourselves in a discussion of the most popular topic this morning among the student population.” Betty is caught unaware about what, exactly, Kevin is talking about, but Veronica seems to have at least a clue, because she purses her lips with obvious annoyance while she unpacks her own lunch—sushi, of course. “I speak of nothing other than your scandalous make-out sesh with Cheryl Blossom in a closet last night.”

 _You're still the_ first _girl._

A sharp ache slams into Betty’s temples and she resists the urge to massage it away.

“Yeah, don’t remind me of that particular period of horror.” Veronica shudders and Kevin laughs.

Betty doesn't know where the impulse comes from, and from where it gathers its strength. All she knows is that one moment she’s watching Veronica unwrap chopsticks from a silken casing, and in the next, Betty is allowing the comment to slip out with alarming ease before she's even aware that the words have formed in her head. "Cheryl seemed to have enjoyed it."

Crap.

Veronica doesn't look up from her food, and in that millisecond before the girl responds, Betty is a bundle of regret at having said something to which the reply she might not want to hear. As if the world has taken pity on her, neither Veronica nor Kevin notice the edge in her remark. In fact, Veronica's reply is mumbled and distracted. "Of course she did; the misery of others feeds her life energy."

A small, agreeing chuckle from Kevin disarms her, but then she's holding her breath again when he asks with amusement, "well, did _you_ enjoy it?"

This is finally what pulls Veronica's attention from her sushi. Betty pays close attention to the fact that her eyebrows are raised in mild indignation, and she tries to focus solely on that, rather than on the cloud of panic looming over her head, growing with all the different ways Veronica could answer this question.

"Are you asking me if I enjoyed kissing ginger Voldemort?" Veronica scoffs, as though this were an insult. "Um, no."

A relieved smile tugs at the corners of Betty's mouth but Kevin outright laughs at Veronica's vehement denial. "Ginger Voldemort or not," he still argues, "many of our finest testosterone-fueled specimens in Riverdale would have loved to switch places with you."

"Yeah, I'd imagine making out with one of the horsemen of the apocalypse would be someone's dream closet date," Veronica mutters darkly. "I can't wait until some other controversial event has taken place so that I will no longer have to be reminded of that harrowing bout of misfortune," Veronica adds discontentedly, glaring at whispering passersby, while Betty notices for the first time that indeed, there's a higher number of students than usual throwing looks at her friend's direction.

As much as Betty believes that literally any subject in the world would be less uncomfortable than this one (and indeed, she opens her mouth to redirect the conversation to their weekend plans), she's thwarted when Kevin continues with interest, "I'm curious to know what Cheryl's response has been to all this gossip."

"I don't know why it's become so widely-discussed. Seven Minutes in Heaven is just a moronic game," Veronica dismisses easily, turning her efforts to chew thoughtfully on a piece of her sushi.

"Has teenage Cruella de Ville tried to talk to you since then?" Kevin asks, leaning forward just slightly in interest, while Veronica is sighing with an apparent mix of impatience and disinterest. 

"She must have--they're AP English partners," Betty interjects, and again, she has no idea how this is happening; the words are leaping from her before she has any chance to actually think them through. Veronica shoots her a sarcastic look of 'thanks for the helpful comment' and Betty shrugs apologetically.

"Of course the only two sophomores in that whole class would end up partnered," Kevin chuckles at the news, trading a knowing look with Betty.

Veronica eyes their interaction with displeasure. "We haven't actually talked in person, but yes, she texted me this morning." She's apparently prompted by her friends' silence to elaborate. Inwardly, Betty wards off a fleeting thought that perhaps Veronica texts Cheryl as frequently as she texts her. "It wasn't explicitly about the closet incident--the main subject was our Vixen practice after school today--but I did request off-handedly that she conjure up some creativity from the ill-intentioned abyss she calls her mind, and think up another game for the next party."

Kevin's eyebrows shoot up as though reaching for his hairline. Betty is well aware that her own face must be a crystal-clear expression of her surprise as well. "And she's actually going to do it? I mean, listen to you?"

"She said she would."

Kevin's dramatically exaggerated gasp serves to telegraph his thoughts, and Betty is too caught up interpreting his scandalized reaction to have a reaction of her own. 

Veronica crosses her arms, raising a single defiant eyebrow. "Am I really being interrogated over my potential ties to Cheryl Blossom?"

Betty springs into action, anticipating a possible disagreement. “That’s not what Kev—”

Kevin smiles good-naturedly at Veronica’s disbelief. "In case the dynamics of Riverdale's social environment have escaped your attention, Betty and I do not get along with her."

“I'm glad you refreshed my memory," Veronica states flatly, taking a sip from her water. 

"In fact," Kevin continues, entirely unfazed, "Bets, tell her what Cheryl said after we had finished our presentation in history class."

Betty sighs quietly before acquiescing. “She asked us how she can go about getting back the 5 minutes of life that she wasted watching us.”

"See what I mean?" Kevin’s grin only highlights the fact that Veronica is very obviously attempting to conceal a smile of her own. That her two best friends are actually enjoying an undercurrent of humor in what appears to be a serious discussion really baffles Betty. 

While Betty finally attempts to eat some of her sandwich, Veronica comments dryly, "had I known that I was scheduled to face the Spanish Inquisition this morning, I would have added another shot to my coffee.”

"We are merely ruling out the possibility that you, our friend, have been recruited in friendship by Riverdale's evil dictator," Kevin explains calmly, and although Betty isn't entirely sure this is the reason why she's uneasy about this whole development, she's relieved that someone else is unsettled also.

Veronica gives them a quiet, pensive nod. "I'm not any closer to her since yesterday, if that's where your concern lies." Then, her eyes brighten with warmth and Betty knows that whatever she says next, it'll be addressed to her directly, not Kevin or anyone else, because this is the look Veronica has reserved for her. "We may one day be two roads that diverge in a yellow wood, Betty. But Cheryl will not be the reason why."

Cheryl will not be the reason why, her mind echoes in an uncertain whisper.

Abruptly, their table trembles when Kevin slaps its surface with moderate force, startling both girls. "Oh my God, Betty; Veronica is totally the Cady Heron to your Janis Ian."

Betty's mouth drops slightly in bemused disbelief. 

"She's what?" Betty breathes out, almost in laughter, at the same time that Veronica frowns with indignation and affirms, "I am not!"

"Is Cheryl our Regina George?" Kevin continues, now in exaggerated horror. "AM I DAMIAN??"

Veronica throws her head back in a bright, carefree laugh, and Betty joins her, giving in to the mirth pooling inside her.

And she almost forgets how the conversation started.

 _You're still the_ first _girl._

-

Later in the day, during their fifth-period Biology class, Betty shares a desk with Archie while Veronica shares hers with Kevin, and the fact that Cheryl Blossom is on the opposite corner of the room is what makes Betty rest a little easier. 

That ease, however--it doesn't last.

The four friends are exchanging jokes about Veronica's "undercover nerd" status after she begins to state the case for why she would have preferred to write her AP English paper on _King Lear_ instead of _Romeo and Juliet_. Kevin compares Veronica's highbrow tastes to the "plebeness" of their own and Betty finds herself releasing an audible laugh that earns them a disapproving look from their teacher. And it's when Veronica turns in her direction, gaze alternating between Betty and Archie, and begins to quote her assigned play to make a point of Shakespeare's accessibility, and Betty feels her heartbeats slow down to keep pace with Veronica's words, that Betty notices it.

"My bounty is boundless as the sea."

She notices the sunlight filtering in from the window through half-closed blinds, and the lively clarity in Veronica's eyes, always luring everyone in.

"My love as deep."

She notices how Veronica can yield her intelligence like a weapon, and yet can speak so softly that her voice seems to mimic a breeze, blowing gently through the air surrounding them.

"The more I give to thee, the more I have."

She notices a warmth that reaches out from Veronica's sunlit smile and touches her entire body.

"For both are infinite."

There are blurred edges in her vision, framing Veronica in a sort of haze that seems to suspend Betty in time and space. 

The rest of the world is unperturbed by the turmoil in her mind; Veronica is grinning confidently, offering an embellished bow as Kevin and Archie mock a standing ovation. "That's act two--"

"Scene two, _Romeo and Juliet_." Instantly, Betty is jerked from her tense reverie to watch a smirking Cheryl emerge beside a displeased Veronica. She pays no attention to either of the boys; her entire body is alert and honed in to the redhead's motions and Veronica's eye roll. "There is fairness in chance, Veronica, judging from our serendipitous partnership in English."

"Cheryl, what brings your illustrious self to this corner of the class?" Kevin inquires with false amiability. 

"Certainly not a desire to mingle with the school's riff-raff, but thank you for the intrusion, George Michael," is the redhead's immediate retort. "Veronica and I have personal business." Before Betty is even done raising an annoyed eyebrow, Veronica speaks up.

"I apologize, Cheryl--you caught me off-guard. I'm usually able to foresee your approach when I glance at the skies and see birds plunging to their deaths, thunderclouds gathering in ominous formations--you know, the usual signs that you've been summoned."

Betty wants to rejoice in Veronica's appropriately cheeky response; she wants to high-five Kevin under the table, as Archie is doing; she wants to derive some happiness from seeing Riverdale's snobbiest, cruelest girl withstand the sort of bitchy response only she could deliver before.

She wants to, but she can't. Because Cheryl is enjoying this.

"Now, what was it that you wanted again?"

Cheryl grins with satisfaction, Veronica crosses her arms impassively, and Betty hates this feeling more than anything, that this is all she can see--two figures emerging from a closet, smudged lipstick, a piercing gaze right into Betty's eyes in a sort of claiming of territory that she doesn't understand, and those damn words that her mind can't wipe away, no matter how hard she tries.

 _You're still the_ first--

No, stop. Stop thinking about this.

It dawns on her then, what it is that bothers her. It bothers her that she can't tell Veronica, I hate that you kissed a girl I hate, even more than I hated when you kissed a boy I loved. 

"Do try to channel your sass and sarcasm into a productive endeavor, Veronica," Cheryl replies simply, face hardening into a patronizing smile when she shoots a quick glance at Betty. "See you two at practice."

-

That day, after school, they have practice. 

Cheryl commences it by announcing authoritatively, "Vixens, pair up and warm up!" Betty's eyes automatically search for Veronica, finding her a few feet away, distracted by her pom-poms, and she moves to approach her. That is, until Cheryl adds, "Veronica, you're with me," and Betty's hands instantly are fisted at her side, a surge of irritation making her grind her teeth.

Later, Betty commits a small timing mistake in their practiced routine and Cheryl calls her a "Chernobyl-sized human failure," to which Veronica responds by declaring that actually, Betty is God's apology to humanity for allowing Cheryl Blossom to be born. The argument evolves into one centered on whether Veronica's loss of familial wealth has anything to do with her "bleeding heart" and as has become usual, the entire Vixen squad is frozen in inaction at their back-and-forth, collectively holding their breaths and exchanging looks between the three of them. Betty wants to appreciate Veronica's quick defense, but she's attuned to Cheryl's expression and is aware that this is exactly what Cheryl wanted. She anticipates the Vixen captain's sly, opportunistic smile before it's even making an appearance a second later.

Just before practice is over, Betty and Veronica are readying themselves to enter the locker room and change, but when Veronica momentarily distances herself for a water break, Betty braces herself for a possible approach from Cheryl.

And the girl doesn't disappoint.

"Betty. Your performance is marginally better, I must admit." Mentally, Betty contrasts the spark of wit always alight in Veronica's eyes, with the spark of malice that illuminates Cheryl's. "Perhaps with some weekend practices, you might be up to par with our average Vixen."

Something in Betty that she can't name and can't identify fires off an impulsive reply. "I can't practice this weekend. Veronica is taking me to New York tomorrow."

There it is. Displeasure. All over Cheryl's face.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. It is so." The fact that she can be flippant like this without fearing any consequence sends a rush of excitement through her veins.

"Reggie's birthday is tomorrow night," Cheryl reminds flatly.

Betty doesn't think she's ever deliberately smirked. This moment might be the first time. "We'll make it. Don't worry." 

Later that afternoon, when Betty is already home and FaceTiming Veronica about their upcoming trip, the Vixens find out through their group text that much like last time they had a public spat (at the Vixen's tryouts, no less), Cheryl has given Veronica the most prominent part in the cheer routine for their next game. Betty is, as usual, "bottom right."

Upon their reading of the routine assignments together, Veronica raises her eyebrows in mild surprise and then shrugs, seamlessly continuing their conversation, while Betty wonders why she's beginning to feel as though Veronica is at the heart of some kind of tug-of-war between her and Cheryl. And she's not sure this is a competition she can win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a computer for a week so this was written entirely on my phone. So if the formatting errors and misspelled words hurt your eyes, don't worry; they hurt mine too.
> 
> Thirdly, your kudos and comments truly gave me life. Thank you!


	3. Saturday

Contrary to Veronica’s firm attestations, New York is not actually “forever miles” away from Riverdale; it’s only a 2-hour train ride away, in fact. Their cabin is somewhat cramped; their pair of seats faces a wall (marking the end of their car), but the privacy of having the cabin to themselves seems to make up for the limited space.

Thirty minutes into their trip, as an enthused Betty recounts her latest journalistic findings at the _Blue and Gold_ while sharing a turkey sandwich with an attuned Veronica, their phones vibrate simultaneously. Immediately, Betty meets Veronica’s eyes and they both nod and morosely agree in tandem, “Cheryl,” before taking out their phones to confirm their suspicions.

“I feel like this very unsubtle reminder of Reggie’s party tonight is aimed at us,” Veronica mutters grumpily as they read Cheryl’s latest entry in the Vixen group text. “I almost wish I could tell her that the whole reason we woke up at misery o’clock in the morning, _on a Saturday_ , to take the first train to New York, is precisely so we could make it back in time for his stupid party.”

Betty takes a pensive bite of her half of the sandwich and watches a moody Veronica open a personal text thread with Cheryl to type and send, _“what are you—our cheer captain or parole officer?”_

She could focus on the fact that Veronica so readily exchanges texts with Cheryl, or she could focus on the fact that those texts are probably not nice ones (that last one could be exhibit A), and she chooses the latter, to avoid that restless, uneasy feeling she associates with any Cheryl/Veronica interaction. “She wanted me to have a weekend practice,” Betty comments a few seconds later.

This seems to grab Veronica’s attention, and the girl turns to her with a frown. “Why?”

“Because apparently my dancing skills are on level with those of dead bodies,” Betty replies dryly, giving her friend a tight-lipped smile as Veronica instantly rolls her eyes and embarks on a firm rebuke of Cheryl’s critique. While she picks up select portions of Veronica's impassioned soliloquy ("...in allowing her misguided, ignorant opinion of you override what should be an objective evaluation..."), Betty notices Veronica shiver a bit as she speaks, which leads her to examine the girl’s chosen attire for the day—an impeccably-tailored dark grey dress with forest green details, paired with somewhat sensible (for Veronica) calf-high, low-heeled boots.

"...and it's a symptom of deficient leadership to allow oneself..."

On anyone else their age, especially from their town, this outfit would raise eyebrows. Indeed, during Veronica’s first day, it was only her blinding confidence and matter-of-fact approach to her sophistication that made everyone immediately accept that of course Veronica Lodge would wear a glamorous cocktail dress to school, as though she were going to some lavish event afterwards no one else was invited to. Betty has, in the past, put quite a lot of effort into blending herself into the Riverdale High crowd as seamlessly as possible, hoping social invisibility would keep away the likes of Cheryl Blossom. Veronica, obviously, has no such impulse, so whereas Betty has many times hoped the earth would do her a solid and maybe swallow her up so she won't have to face the world, Veronica's every choice in dress and demeanor broadcast the fact that she has no desire to hide. So in her first day, and every day after that, there were pearls and expensive purses and high-scale shoes, and yet no one ever thinks that Veronica is overdressed.

"...and I think, honestly, that not only are you just as great as anyone else there, you are in fact one of the best in the entire..."

As Betty ponders on Veronica's self-assuredness and the way she carries herself, her eyes turn their focus from Veronica's clothes to the rest of her. To the curve of her smile, so often illuminated by traces of that self-possession instilled by privilege. To the dark, magnetic quality of her gaze. To the strong eyebrows, the bold lip. 

"...inherently wrong and unjust, and it's a pity that..."

Sometimes, Betty forgets that Veronica is good-looking. Her attractiveness is kind of an obvious thing; probably the first thing anyone notices about her, a second or two before they notice the clothes and other external signs of wealth, and the haughty glint in her eye. Betty saw it through Archie's eyes first—surprise, followed by awe, followed by attraction—before she turned around in their booth and got to see it for herself that night at Pop's. But maybe because attractiveness is such a blatant, distinct quality of hers, the outward package to everything else Veronica has—wit, intelligence, sass—that it’s easy to just take it for granted, and forget. But then all Betty needs to do is notice how others see her, or take a moment to really look at her, like right now, and she sees it too.

"...and it's not as if she hasn't had her own flawed sequences..."

Another shiver.

This morning, what Veronica also has, in addition to the fashion-magazine-ready dress, is a black bomber-style jacket that doesn’t seem to be doing much to warm her. Betty can’t help an amused, minute shake of her head; it’s late fall and they’re in northeast America, yet Betty is the only one who’s packed extra clothes in case of inclement weather. She brought a thick, comfy jacket—which she’s wearing—and an extra sweater, which she digs out of her backpack and extends to Veronica without much thought, her gesture coinciding with the end of Veronica's speech.

The girl’s eyes settle on the sweater with thinly-disguised aversion and it takes a second for Betty to register that in addition to being a hoodie, this sweater has Betty's initials engraved on the right chest area and is light pink—a Betty color, definitely not a Veronica color.

“Thanks, but…” Veronica pauses, as though carefully searching for the right words. Betty already wants to laugh in anticipation of what the girl will say next, but she maintains her serious composure. “I don’t really…. wear pastels. Or hooded sweaters. Or anything not in my size.”

Betty pretends to be offended; knows that she’s not convincing, because it’s kind of impossible to get mad at Veronica for being Veronica. Still, she replies lightly, “well, when you’re done insulting my wardrobe, let me know and the sweater is yours.”

An hour later, they’re several cars away from their assigned one, exploring the train in shared giggles over their imaginary adventure: Veronica has them pretending to be CIA agents (“what do you mean you don’t know who Carrie Mathison is?!”) on a manhunt for an internationally-notorious clothing thief who specializes in burglarizing bargain department stores for seasons-late pieces, and their current mission is to retrieve the thief’s latest illegal acquisition—Betty’s pink hoodie (upon first hearing this, Betty had to slap Veronica’s shoulder).

While Betty teases Veronica over the girl’s unshakeable belief in the power of the darker end of the color spectrum, they step inside a curiously-empty car and halt in their tracks, realizing that it’s the last one in the train. Veronica immediately approaches the locked, mostly-glass door at the end of the car, while Betty stays behind for a long, languid second to take in the sunrise hazily filtering through the windows, the steady hum of the car, and to watch the tracks speedily blurring away outside the door.

This scene, Betty thinks, is a lot like how she imagines every moderately dangerous situation will always go for them—Veronica, courage and easy bravado, surging ahead, while Betty lingers behind, in cautious trepidation.

“I had never traveled by train, you know,” Veronica says conversationally once she notices Betty’s eventual arrival at her side. “Well, not in the US, anyway; I traveled by train with some friends once, to get from Prague to Vienna, but that was two years ago.”

“I’ve never been so far from home without my parents,” Betty confesses in response, slightly embarrassed to have blurted that out when her best friend just casually mentioned a cross-country European trip. “And this is my first time on a train.”

Veronica’s surprise makes her blush with further shame. “Wait—so you’ve never been to New York? Ever?” Betty shakes her head. “When you said you had never been 'there,' I thought you meant you had never been to NYU, which is where the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory building is. Not, like, the whole city.”

Betty tries to shrug indifferently, and probably fails. “To be honest, my parents were never too big on traveling. When we were growing up, most of our summers were in Riverdale; I would fix cars with my dad and Polly would run around with my mom, and everything else we would do together. As a family, we didn’t really go anywhere; maybe once or twice we took road trips, but not very far.” She purses her lips for a quick second, before adding with a humorless chuckle, “the only reason I was able to come today is because they had this newspaper printing conference to go to and they’re only going to be back tomorrow morning.” There’s a lot more to this topic than she’s admitting, but Betty hesitates, wondering if Veronica’s jet-setting past makes Betty’s own Riverdale-centric childhood seem infinitely boring.

Instead of teasing her about her dull upbringing or changing the subject to something more lively, Veronica gives her a warm smile and leans back against the shiny aluminum wall behind her, like a gentle encouragement for her to continue. Betty averts her eyes and crosses her arms, some awkward timidity briefly overtaking her. But this is her best friend standing in front of her, and if there ever was a person she could talk about this with, Veronica is it. So she continues. “Polly… she always felt like Riverdale was too small for her. Like there was so much of the world to see. Like she was meant for something different, meant to be somewhere else.” She swallows nervously. This is the difficult part. “So I think that’s why our parents never took us anywhere. I think they were afraid that if she saw things outside of Riverdale, she really _would_ run away.” She pauses, aware of her heartbeats, slower than they should be. "And then she did; or at least, she tried. And I don't even know where she is, exactly. I haven't seen her since she was taken away. It's like she disappeared into the world and I didn’t get to go with her."

Despite the nearly suffocating lump in Betty's throat, a small, comfortable silence settles in the space between them. Veronica steps forward with a grave, somber look and lays a mildly cold, but nonetheless tender hand on Betty’s own, rubbing small circles with her fingers, and Betty's own body reacts to this in two very different ways simultaneously, as though her brain has effectively split in the middle; one half that thinks this friendly gesture is soothing and relaxing, like a hug, and the other half that registers the girl's contact with her skin as though it carried an electrical current, sparking every nerve ending into a buzz.

She can’t think about this too much, and Veronica, meanwhile, is quite obviously unaware that Betty’s mind is not entirely on the conversation they had been having. “Well, Betty, today I’m going to show you the world.” Betty does what she's begun to get accustomed to doing; she forces her feelings into a darker, more secluded corner of her mind, as though she were pushing up a boulder back to the top of a hill. "And by world, I mean New York." Automatically, Betty smiles at Veronica’s heavy solemnity. “And by New York, I mean one borough.” Her smile widens into a grin, and then into a laugh when Veronica breaks character and smiles back.

Betty clears her throat, wills her voice to be steady. “Your hand is freezing. You need to put this sweater on before you showing me the world means me showing you the inside of an emergency room as a result of your hypothermia,” Betty comments amiably, hanging the sweater on Veronica’s shoulder. “You won’t die from wearing pink. Or from looking like me.”

Veronica laughs, picking the sweater off her shoulder and holding it in front of her for examination. “Right—you, with the perfect body, and the perfect smile, and eyes blue like a clear summer sky—how horrific would it be to look that revolting,” the girl scoffs sarcastically, taking off her bomber jacket and then pulling the sweater over her head.

Betty blushes at the compliment, reminds herself not to replay this in her head later, and then feels a strange, nervous thrill when she watches Veronica finally lower the sweater onto her torso and smooth it over, meeting her eyes with a sigh. “Ask me when I thought I would ever wear a Pepto-Bismol-pink hoodie in my life.”

A tiny flutter of affection stirs inside Betty’s chest. “I’m going to guess never,” she replies with a fond smile, eyes sweeping the girl's figure. It's a size too big (Betty is a good 3 inches taller than her) and makes Veronica look even smaller, but it still works. There's nothing that would ever _not_ work. “You look great," she adds easily. "It looks great on you."

Betty almost wants to look away at how brightly Veronica beams. “Agent Mathison, you’re just saying that because it was yours 2 minutes ago.”

Later, when they’ve returned to their assigned seats, Betty looks out the window and spots the first signs of the dash and bustle of the famed city; busy intersections, a horizon populated by skyscrapers, and more people walking about than she's ever seen in her life.

“Are we in New York already?” she asks, subconsciously already preparing herself to gather her bag and step out of the train.

Veronica sighs, wistfully. Betty turns from the window to look at her just in time to catch the smile creeping into the corner of her mouth. “Yes, we are.”

“Should we get off?”

At this, Veronica lets out a small chuckle. "No, we're getting off on Grand Central. Which is in Manhattan." She slides closer to the window, and closer to Betty, to point towards some part of the scenery that Betty can't quite focus on. “That... is the Bronx. And you know what their motto is—come for the food, stay because you got murdered." She pulls out her phone, opens a map app, and huddles even closer to Betty. "This is where we're ultimately going. See that little dot?"

The proximity shouldn't affect her, she knows that. But it does.

"Yeah, I see it."

-

Grand Central Terminal does turn out to be... grand, in a breathtaking way. It's hard for Betty not to compare what she's seeing in front of her with the countless memories she has of movie and TV show scenes that have taken place in the same spot. It's so cheesy, she thinks, to feel like somehow she's part of something bigger than herself, solely for standing in a place like this.

"I would say 'welcome to Manhattan' but we're not even going to get out of the building," Veronica notes wryly after letting Betty stand at the main lobby for a few moments. "I hear the food here is surprisingly decent, but we're taking the subway to my favorite place for breakfast, if you're okay with that?"

Betty shifts her attention from the elaborate details of each wall and each section of the ornate ceiling, to look at her friend, who is watching her with a small smile. Because there's not much she could say without sounding terribly uncool ("oh my God this is the most beautiful building I've ever seen" is out of the question), Betty just nods. Veronica nods back, links her arm with Betty's, and gently pulls her towards the departing area for the subways.

It only takes 20 minutes until their subway ride is over and Veronica has delivered them to the Magnolia Bakery storefront.

"Really?" Betty asks, more to tease her friend than anything else. "The place you bought your apology cupcakes?"

Veronica actually flushes, in the most self-consciously adorable way, and Betty is terribly, terribly tempted to take a picture of her to memorialize this moment.

They make their way inside and Betty can't help admiring the ease with which Veronica wades through the entrance, approaching the service counter with aplomb, and begins to place her order, immediately pulling the gazes of everyone occupying the relatively small shop. Betty doesn't know how someone does this so effortlessly; how Veronica can walk into any room and absolutely command all its attention.

Then, Veronica turns around to meet her gaze, and motions her over, and Betty grins at the instant rush that is realizing that while everyone appears to be looking at Veronica, Veronica is only looking at her.

The banana pudding that Veronica maintains is her only true addiction is probably the best thing Betty has ever eaten, and as they sit at a park facing the bakery and soak in the sunshine while enjoying their treats, Veronica recounts some examples of the sort of scandalous behavior in her past that prompted her to buy Magnolia goods to "make amends and avoid some generalized social destruction."

Veronica has insisted, time and time again, that she was decidedly not a good person before she landed in Riverdale. It was somewhat hard for Betty to imagine that fully, even with the glimpses she saw (most often in Veronica's interactions with Cheryl, during which a satisfyingly-vicious side of Veronica would make appearances). Now, however, hearing specific, vividly-described examples of Veronica's experiences as a "bullying, destructive, vindictive, boyfriend-stealing bitch" makes Betty realize just what a drastic transformation Veronica has undergone. She hadn't—couldn't have, really—appreciated it before, but now she does. 

The Veronica who hazed and taunted a girl mercilessly until she had to seek therapy and transfer schools is the same Veronica who guides Betty through Greenwich Village and its history, and has Betty sample chocolates and fruits and candy that are "only sold here, and believe me, once you leave, you will wish Riverdale shops would step up their game," and takes pictures of them laughing and posing as they walk past interesting sights, and it's the same Veronica who, in the midst of admitting the things she regrets and the things that make her sad, tells Betty that just before she arrived in Riverdale, she was afraid. Terrified, in fact, that "maybe badness is genetic, and I was doing on a small scale what my dad ended up doing on a large scale—ruining people's lives." And that sometimes she wonders whether the awfulness she thought she could get rid of by going into a new town is actually just part of her, and she'll never change.

The Veronica who shunned poorer classmates and thought it was fine to emotionally and financially blackmail a former friend into doing her homework is the same Veronica who finally gets them to NYU and helps Betty take notes and pictures throughout their short tour of the former site of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. While they walk through an exhibit on 19th century labor reform movements, Betty comments idly that she isn’t sure what career path she’ll follow, but has accepted that she’ll probably choose whatever her parents want for her, and it’s this same Veronica who insists that of all the reasons one might have to embark on a certain career, parental preferences should not be the top one. 

It’s the same Veronica who, immediately after the tour, leads Betty towards Washington Square Park and the hippest ice cream shop Betty has ever seen, proceeding to order "a scoop of the City That Never Sleeps and one of the Big Apple for her, and for me, I'll have a scoop of the Empire State, and one of the City of Dreams." 

It’s the same Veronica who sits them down under a tree, ice cream cones in hand, and watches in companionable silence as Betty lets the wind brush across her face and sway her ponytail from side to side, and admits with a dull ache in her chest that she never thought she'd be able to step out of Polly's shadow, until Polly went away and there was no shadow there at all, and that the pressure she feels to achieve everything her parents envision for her is at times so crushing that she can't breathe. 

And it’s the same Veronica who tells her, "I think you're trying to be twice as good, twice as perfect, to make up for Polly's absence, to be enough for two people." Betty can't look her in the eye; something inside of her physically stops her from looking at Veronica, fueled by the heart-stilling fear that she’s going to break down and start crying. Instead, she decides to take a deep breath, and hold it in, counting the seconds. "But you don't have to. You don't have to try to be perfect, especially since you never will be." She finally exhales, as if she had been submerged underwater, and can finally break the surface. “Be whoever you want to be. You won't lose anyone worth having in your life.” Betty chances a look beside her, from where Veronica gives her a sunlit smile, steady and sure. "And I'll be here."

They wander through streets and stores whose names Betty doesn't bother trying to remember, and after passing by an internationally-renowned culinary institute, Veronica tells her about the time she tried to take a cooking class and literally burned the student kitchen down. "And all I was making were pancakes. Like, plain ones, because I didn't know how to even begin to try making flavored ones."

"Did you get a good grade for your effort or did they take your unintentional arson into consideration?" Betty asks, laughing when Veronica responds with the same narrowed-eye look she always gives her after a smartass comment.

"I was taking the class so I'd know how to cook for someone I was dating at the time. So the grade was secondary." Betty's heart-rate performs a tiny uptick at the casual mention of Veronica's dating life. "But yes, I received a B-, which is an absolute disgrace."

Betty wishes she didn't want to know more about this topic, she really does. But... "And did the someone you were dating ever get some good pancakes?"

There's an embarrassed chuckle and then a wince. "No... but then, that was unusually generous of me, anyway. I'm afraid back then I was the kind of person who did not bother trying to be a good girlfriend. I've had two relationships, and I wasn't particularly pleasant in either one."

"And now?" They've stopped at a crosswalk, and Betty isn't sure which direction they're going. Not that her focus is at all on their whereabouts or eventual destination, honestly.

"I think I'd be much better." Veronica sighs, then smirks at her with a discreet blush. "But don't take it from me. Ask the next person I date."

It's random, it's unwelcome, it has no reason for occurring, but Betty's brain chooses this exact moment to replay, simultaneously, Betty's kiss with Veronica at the Vixen tryouts, and Cheryl's terrible, aggravating words after her closet date with Veronica.

It's _Just trust me_ , followed by _You're still the_ first _girl she kissed in Riverdale_ , and Betty absolutely hates it.

She clears her throat; pushes that thought as far away from the forefront of her mind as she can.

"Deal. I’ll ask."

Then, it's past noon and Veronica asks Betty if there's any place in New York she's always wanted to see. "Please, for the love of God, don't say the Statue of Liberty."

After laughing at the girl's dramatic plea, Betty calmly assures her that the place she's always wanted to go to is Central Park. 

“Really? Central Park?” Veronica's grin is so bright that Betty thinks it could power a dozen houses in Riverdale, and Betty has never felt gladder to have made the right choice. "That's my favorite place in the entire city."

They catch a taxi and after Veronica gripes at the driver, two minutes into their ride, "hey, Driving Miss Daisy, there are butterflies flying faster than this cab and we need to get to our destination before the ice caps melt completely," she winces and sighs with disappointment. "Sorry; that was the New York in me." She slides forward on their seat, nearing the driver, and declares remorsefully to the bewildered man, "that was awful and rude and you did not deserve that. I understand traffic congestions are not within your realm of control and do not indict you for this delay."

On their way there, Veronica points to various old, history-laden buildings with eye-catching facades, offers blurbs of information ("that's where Truman Capote used to get his morning coffee"), and even sings the opening verse of "Bobby Jean" when they drive past the former site of The Hit Factory, the famous recording studio “where Bruce Springsteen recorded _Born in the USA_ , otherwise known as your dad’s favorite album.” And through every comment, Betty observes that same boldness that's become Veronica's trademark in Riverdale, amplified by her familiarity with this city. Not that there had ever been a single moment of doubt, but the person Veronica is was definitely shaped by New York, almost like she's derived some of her confidence from the grandeur of each skyscraper. 

"So, this is my favorite spot." Veronica got them "the best slice of pizza you'll ever have" and has sat them down on a comfortable wooden bench overlooking a beautiful, uncrowded, and probably less famous portion of Central Park (and Betty thinks this because she can't really remember it showing up in any movies). 

"Why is it your favorite?" Betty watches Veronica take a careful, composed bite of her pizza—even in this, the high-society customs persist—and it makes her laugh a bit. "Don't tell me there's some purse-shaped statue here somewhere."

"Ha ha—someone call the Apollo; there's an undiscovered talent here," Veronica rolls her eyes with a smile, and Betty grins back. "No, I like it firstly because that black-and-white thing on the ground over there," she points to some patterned stone circle about a yard away from them that Betty hadn't noticed before; "is the John Lennon Memorial."

"Oh..." Now that she's actually reading it, she can see that the stones at the center of the circle are spelling out 'IMAGINE' and there are some roses scattered about. 

"And the second reason it's my favorite..." An almost imperceptible hesitation makes Betty tear her eyes away from the memorial, and back to her friend. "Is that building over there. The reason this memorial is here is because John Lennon was shot in front of that apartment building, which is called The Dakota." Betty's gaze follows the point of Veronica's finger. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be much notable about this building besides the obvious luxury—the architectural style matches most of what they've seen today, so it's just old and important-looking to Betty's admittedly untrained eye. "If you look up all the way to the penthouse...." Betty complies; focuses on the topmost floor, "you can see where I lived."

Immediately, Betty's mouth drops and she turns to Veronica, who meets her widened eyes steadily. It's like all these scattered, mostly disconnected strands of information come together all of a sudden: Veronica has never eaten bologna, didn't know how much a banana costs, has never worn anything sold at a discount, didn't know what cable TV was or that it had to be paid for—and all those times Betty thought she knew, or could at least estimate, how rich Veronica was, she didn't actually know.

"I'm sorry your family lost so much," Betty blurts out, mostly because there's nothing else her brain has managed to come up with for her to say. 

"It's fine, really," Veronica assures, easily. "The money wasn't really ours—not legally, anyway—and having so much of it made me a terrible person."

Shaking her head vigorously, Betty disagrees, "no, you're not terrible. I know you're not."

Veronica cocks an eyebrow pointedly. "You just haven't personally witnessed my bad side—believe me, it's still there." In between the steadfast insistence, there's some pleading, like Veronica is asking Betty to agree with her. "It'll come out eventually."

"Everyone has a bad side, and it does come out eventually." Betty finds herself somewhat frustrated, wishing she knew how to express herself better, to efficiently convince Veronica of what she believes is an undeniable truth. "If and when yours does, it'll be temporary. It'll just be a side.” She catches a minute flinch from Veronica. “And I know the rest of you."

Sometimes Betty notices those occasions in which Veronica's mind is in the past, navigating old memories. A small crinkle forms between her brows and her always brilliant eyes cloud over like outward manifestations of whatever storm is raging inside her. Whenever their conversation has veered towards Veronica's former life, Betty observed Veronica's semblance take this turn. Right now, however, this doesn't seem to be the case. Veronica is thoroughly focused. On Betty. 

And although Veronica has always been characterized by her air of mystery, and the allure of a past about which no one really knows the details, Betty knows she's been privy to more than most. She can read Veronica when everyone else is lost in the maze of her unflappable countenance. But right now, Betty can't read her. The bits she recognizes are few; Veronica is nervous, she's hesitant, she wants to say something but doesn't seem to know how—

“Veronica?" 

Betty hears the call behind her, and breaks eye contact with Veronica to turn and identify the caller. There are three girls, congregated by a bench several feet away, and Betty doesn't need more than a second to notice and examine the high-end clothing, the purses, the coffees, and the impeccable hair and makeup, and deduce that these girls know Veronica. She turns to Veronica and notices an uncertain smile and an instant change in the atmosphere.

"Oh my God; it really is you." Before Betty can really register what's going on, they're surrounded—there's a tall blonde hugging Veronica, a long-haired, green-eyed brunette shaking Betty's hand with enthusiasm, and a girl who could give every known supermodel a run for their money (does Beyoncé have another sister? is what she finds her mind inquiring) is taking numerous selfies with the entire group.

"And who is this?" the blonde asks with piqued interest.

"Elizabeth Cooper," Betty introduces before Veronica has a chance to. She doesn't look at Veronica for fear of unintentionally letting her guard down and revealing that she's not at her most secure at the moment. 

"That explains the engraving on your Pepto-Bismol-pink sweater," Beyoncé's sister notes haughtily, adding, “I was about to ask what brand this ‘E.C.’ is and why it’s making hideous clothing.” Everyone laughs, including Veronica, who shoots her an amused ‘I told you so’ look that makes Betty want to slap her shoulder again.

"Yeah, what a funny way of laying claim to someone," the blond comments, in the sort of idle-but-not-really tone that reminds Betty of Cheryl. "And you brought her to your favorite place—how special." This is the first time Betty notices something odd about the way she's studying both Veronica and Betty. Unless she’s seeing things, there’s an undercurrent of hostility going on. "Are you taking her to the bookstore next?"

"I might," Veronica replies, no trace of hesitation or even a waver in her voice. 

"Right," the girl nods, clearing her throat. "Without literature, life is hell."

"That's Bukowski," Veronica affirms immediately, with a frown. "Don't quote a misogynist."

"You really didn't change," Beyoncé's sister says fondly, while the brunette is nodding.

Finally, Veronica seems to realize that Betty's level of discomfort with this entire setting is steadily increasing. "Betty, these are some friends from my former school." She turns again to the three girls and smiles. "London, Madrid, and Rome," Veronica explains, motioning respectively to the blonde, Beyoncé’s sister, and the brunette. "That's what we called ourselves," she adds, giving Betty a quiet look of embarrassment, like she’s correctly guessing that Betty thinks these names are ridiculous, and very much what she would have expected a group of teenage socialites to nickname each other.

"And you were Paris, don't forget," Madrid reminds.

"So, is this visit for business or pleasure?" It's London speaking up again, this time with pointed curiosity, and when Veronica purses her lips tensely, Betty is absolutely certain that whatever history exists between these two, it’s not good.

"Field research for a school project," Veronica replies shortly.

"Oh, is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

At this, Veronica narrows her eyes with ill-concealed danger and Rome immediately steps in. 

"Come on, girl—behave."

"How about we take a short walk, Veronica?" London invites abruptly, tilting her head in an exact angle that causes a ray of sunshine to reflect off her blond hair in almost blinding brilliance. The two other girls exchange looks and Betty's mind races to correctly interpret this situation. "To go see old Daniel Webster. It's just a short, 5 minute walk."

"Yeah, and hell is just a sauna," Veronica mumbles, then shoots Betty a quick, apologetic look. "I'll be right back."

Veronica and the blonde are barely out of earshot, when Betty finds herself surrounded once again by the two other girls.

"So how did you guys meet?" Madrid asks eagerly, sitting down on the nearest bench and motioning for Betty to do the same.

Reluctantly, Betty complies, taking one last look at the bended path on which Betty last saw Veronica. "Well, when she got to Riverdale, my friend and I were having dinner and she bumped into us. And then the next day, I ended up giving her a tour of our school."

"How cute," Rome comments instantly.

"Definitely a meet-cute," Madrid agrees firmly. "So then what happened?"

Betty alternates her gaze between each girl, not entirely sure of what they're asking her. These two seem friendly, in jarring contrast to their other friend, but Betty is still uneasy. "Um. We ended up in cheer together."

Both girls chuckle. "Of course she would get into cheer. Is she captain yet? She was going to make captain this year," Madrid comments lightly.

"No," Betty replies, shelving that information away for later. "We're just... part of the squad.”

Rome's smile widens with apparent realization. "Oh, that makes sense. Maybe that's why she's opening up her dating restrictions. She used to have a very strict policy about inter-squad dating."

Before Betty can actually process what the girl is getting at, Madrid nods enthusiastically in agreement with her friend, and adds, "yes, makes perfect sense. And I'm glad she made an exception for you; you seem so nice."

Wait a second.

Oh.

_Oh._

They think she's with Veronica. As in, _with_ her—dating her.

A wave of panic prompts Betty to deny immediately, "oh, we're not—”

She's interrupted when Veronica and the blonde make their way back, and the latter approaches Betty to say resentfully, "let me know how her pancakes turn out, whenever she decides to make them for you."

"Seriously?" Veronica's expression is a mix of anger and surprise. "I just told you we're not—"

"Come on, girls. Veronica and the flavor of the month are late for their train."

Just as brusquely as they arrived, the girls disappear—Madrid and Rome after giving Veronica quick, hearty hugs—and Betty finds herself staring up at Veronica with alarm.

Veronica's jaw is set with obvious annoyance. "Of all the benches, in all the park corners, in all of the world, she had to come to this one."

A nervous energy courses through Betty's body, fed by all the questions crowding her mind. Especially the one that really needs to be asked first, and there is no way she can think of to do it, except to be as blunt as possible. "Was the blonde one your ex-girlfriend?"

Veronica doesn't seem surprised by her straightforwardness. She answers her with a small cringe. "Yeah. It was a short-lived dumpster fire of a relationship."

Betty feels like she should be more shocked by the whole Veronica-dates-girls thing, which is a confirmation of something she hadn't even suspected, but for some reason, that doesn't take her aback at all. It seems kind of obvious now, judging by how comfortable Veronica has been about kissing girls in general. 

She’s not surprised, no. But this is still something she thinks she should digest, if only because this is her best friend, revealing a sizable bit of information about herself.

Veronica dates girls. Betty runs that over in her head, getting used to it. Veronica is bisexual, and dates girls.

"Are you mad I didn't tell you about me?" Veronica’s apprehensive question interrupts her introspection.

"No, of course I’m not mad.” Betty shakes her head vigorously. 

Veronica is bisexual, and dates girls. 

Veronica kissed her, once.

“V, you never have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with."

Veronica shows some relief, but isn't completely relaxed. "I've always been comfortable telling you; I just didn't have an opportunity to do it." Betty understands that sometimes one needs to wait for the right moment to reveal certain things, so she doesn't question any part of what Veronica is saying. She maintains a tight hold on her reactions, knowing that acting like this revelation has changed her perspective of Veronica is pretty much the worst thing she could do. "Did Rome and Madrid say anything that bothered you?"

"No, they didn't say anything." Betty debates telling her about their assumption that they're dating. 

Veronica kissed her, once.

She decides against it. "Did your ex harass you about me?"

Veronica sits down beside Betty with a disheartened sigh. "Yeah, she thinks we're dating.” When she turns to look at her, Betty sees a thousand unsaid (and frankly, unnecessary) apologies floating inside Veronica's forlorn eyes. The sight sends a dull ache into her chest, and makes her push aside all other thoughts, to focus on restoring Veronica’s cheer. "Sorry about that patch of unpleasantness in an otherwise great day."

"It was fine," Betty assures, as adamantly as she can. There might only be one way, she decides, to end the day on a high note. "So, are you taking me to this bookstore or what?"

"Oh, right." Instantly, Veronica brightens, sitting up with much more excitement than before. "Good idea! And on the way, we have to get you the best hot-dog you'll ever try."

Ten minutes later, they've finished their hot-dogs and Veronica has grabbed Betty's hand (in a most inconvenient, distracting way) to lead her inside the kind of homely, inviting, mildly-disorganized bookstore that Betty had thought only existed as movie sets nowadays. Immediately, Betty learns that for all the jokes everyone has made about this, Veronica truly is a literature nerd. There’s a different kind of liveliness in her now as she introduces Betty to a sympathetic older man who is "the absolute best" in book recommendations, and then tells her animatedly about the numerous times she had dramatically sought refuge from an unfair world and the tight grip of her parents inside this bookstore. 

As she listens to Veronica’s impassioned opinions on the impact of modernity and technology on literacy, Betty watches the enthusiastic mannerisms, follows the soft excitement of her voice, absorbs the luminous quality of her eyes, and lets herself be pulled by a smile so bright it burns her.

Veronica kissed her. Once.

She’s always felt like this. She knows she has.

Veronica has them play a game wherein they have 5 minutes to find the book their 12-year-old selves would be reading. While Betty squashes every single thought related to Veronica in order to have any chance at finding the right book, she searches through shelves stocked with well-worn volumes and limited editions, running her fingers through the salient edges of the hardcovers. An obviously-older, nameless book snags her attention. Betty reaches for it impulsively, turning the cover and first page carefully to discover its title and author. Instead, she finds an inscription in ink that's been faded by time:

To Anne:

_Nothing in the world is single;_

_All things by a law divine_

_In one spirit meet and mingle._

_Why not I with thine?_

_And the sunlight clasps the earth_

_And the moonbeams kiss the sea:_

_What is all this sweet work worth_

_If thou kiss not me?_

Betty reads it once, then she reads it again. As she reads it for a third time, the world has gone still and silent as her mind has been flooded by distinct sensations drowning her senses.

_Why not I with thine?_

This poem. 

It's about...

_If thou kiss not me?_

_You’re still the_ first _girl._

_Just trust me._

Despite a Herculean effort from her mind's part to understand this, Betty is reminded of that time her 4th grade class visited a museum and she stood, frozen and overwhelmed, in front of a Jackson Pollock mural for a full hour, trying to piece together what it was all supposed to mean; where the lines were leading and if they ever met again, what the colors meant, what the picture was supposed to be. She feels now, like she did back then, that there is too much in front of her, and that she can't understand it.

There's someone who makes this poem make sense. The same someone portrayed by Pollock with the splatters.

It's the someone who shared banana pudding with her, and told her not to try to be perfect.

It's the someone who is convinced that she's a bad person, even though she's not.

It's the someone who is her best friend, the one who gave her courage and her first kiss.

There's a tremor in Betty's heartbeats, a flutter inside her stomach. A generalized panic, overtaking her.

_And I’ll be here._

"Hey, you."

Startled, Betty almost drops the book. A frown from Veronica reminds her to frantically pull every rogue sense and impulse of hers back into normalcy. 

"You okay? I thought you were lost; you didn't meet me with your book. Is that it?" Without waiting for a response, Veronica grabs the book from Betty's grasp quite easily, opening it down its middle section. Her eyes browse what must be only a few lines of a single poem, before she smirks with easy charm. "Shelley? I didn't take you for a poetry girl." Betty’s feet are urging her to run away, her heart wants to leap from her throat. 

"I’m not," she forces out. "I was looking for Nancy Drew."

At this, Veronica laughs and nods. Betty thinks she's going to evaporate if she pays too much attention to the warmth in Veronica's eyes. "Yeah, that's more like it. Here's mine."

Betty takes the book numbly, flips the cover to find that it's Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.

"I can't help my predictability, either," Veronica quips, taking the book back and turning its pages with mild interest. “Why age when you can have a portrait do it for you?” she murmurs distractedly while Betty focuses on her breathing, on steadying them enough to go back to normal. That's all she wants—to go back to normal, to defend herself against Veronica's merciless attack against her senses and sanity.

Veronica lays a hand on Betty's shoulder quite abruptly and Betty freezes, brain completely shut down like an explosion has leveled every thought. "Do you want to find a Nancy Drew book? The editions sold here are pretty rare. You might find something you like."

Please. Act normal.

_Just trust me._

Please. Stop.

"No, that's okay."

"Well, our train leaves in 15 minutes. Ready to go back home?" Veronica asks cheerily, flashing the kind of grin that sends a rush of weakness through Betty’s limbs. 

This is a battle, she realizes. She's fighting what she's feeling, but it's already rushing through her bloodstream, it’s already seeped into every organ. It’s already growing inside her—vines flourishing around the expanse of her heart. She's losing. She’s losing so, so badly.

"Yeah, ready."

Veronica places both of their books on a collecting bin nearby and leads her to the exit, waving goodbye to the older man from before. 

“By the way, do you want to take any souvenirs?” she asks Betty off-handedly when they arrive at Grand Central Terminal. “We still have time to get something for Archie.”

Archie. The Archie who kissed Veronica, too, once.

Stop.

“No, that’s fine.”

“Not Kevin, either?” Veronica begins, then shakes her head. “Never mind; now that I think about it, he’s been here before.” 

As their train lurches forward, Veronica releases a small chuckle. Betty is trying so hard not to allow her eyes to linger at any particular spot of Veronica’s face and body that it begins to hurt her head. “If you don’t get an A on your paper after personally visiting the site of interest, let me know and I’m going to riot on your behalf.”

You kissed me, once.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I didn't know: a) that this chapter would get so fecking long b) that this story would consequently take so long to update c) that I could write and rewrite the same chapter 9457548 and still not like it (and on that subject, if you'd like to spare me the torture of reviewing my own work a gazillion times and would like to be my beta, please send me a holler at my Tumblr--same name as the one here)
> 
> Thing I did know: a) that you guys are awesome :) Thank you for all the encouraging feedback!
> 
> P.S. if anyone knows how to keep AO3 from stacking all my chapter notes at the bottom, help a sister out


	4. Spin #2: Reggie

Maybe if Betty had been more of an active social presence in Riverdale prior to this year—prior to becoming a Vixen—she would have more experience with how to behave in parties and around large groups of people in general. But prior to this year, she was an awkward, terribly shy freshman, and the younger sister of one of the most popular girls in school to boot. Having the guts to try out for the Vixens again after her mortifying freshman year failure and without Polly to support her was something that she has to attribute entirely to secondhand courage derived from Veronica.

So yeah, Betty has just barely begun to get used to the public spotlight brought on by her Vixen membership, and now every weekend there is a party and in every party, Betty tries to feel comfortable being surrounded by people she's never spoken to.

But what makes it much, much worse, is that in every party she observes the same scene, increasingly exasperating, increasingly aggravating, achingly familiar now—Veronica, arriving with Betty, Archie, and Kevin, being pulled off separately to the side for a flirty talk by some random guy. Betty notices, clearly and unmistakably, that they just can't help themselves. It's like every human variation of Chuck Clayton has been genetically programmed to want her. And Veronica is fine with it, of course. Is used to it. Betty attracts male attention, certainly, but not as often as Veronica, and when it's happened, her obvious discomfort has successfully scared every approacher away. On the opposite end of the disaster scale is Veronica, who navigates the glances, the low whistles, the hungry whispers into her ear with the sort of charming dexterity that Betty thinks must have been extensively trained. There's no way someone is that socially skilled and fearless naturally. Veronica turns these boys down and they only seem to want her more.

Not that she cares. She can't care. Yes, since New York her stomach has been performing flip-flops and her heart beats a little erratically whenever she thinks of her friend, but Betty has talked herself out of feeling many things before. This will be no exception; she can get over this, if she repeats it enough times: I don't like Veronica. Whatever it was that New York did—it can pass. It _will_ pass. It _has_ to pass. Betty has had a terrible enough experience liking a friend before; she doesn’t need to go through it again, especially when she knows—she really just _knows_ —that she will be left in much worse shape with Veronica than she was with Archie.

Tonight, Veronica is running late and Kevin is already there, so it's (an unwilling, reluctant, absolutely moody) Jughead who's alongside Betty and Archie, entering Reggie's extensive, richly-decorated house for his birthday celebration. As the door opens, they are engulfed by a party already well attended and well underway. The blast of music, the steam of teenage entanglement, and vaguely-alcoholic scent overwhelm Betty's senses for a quick moment. Then, Betty is exchanging polite greetings with nearby students, Archie is nodding and trading "bro-handshakes" with fellow team members, and Jughead is murmuring complaints about how _not_ his scene this is.

Kevin finally meets them and while all four of them make their way to a less-occupied area of the foyer, Kevin throws an arm around Betty and begins with excitement, “not even a text the whole day? Was New York that fascinating?” Betty takes a sip of her ginger ale solely to buy time and avoid an immediate, unprepared answer, and her friend adds, “if I hadn’t seen a picture of you two eating ice cream at NYU on Veronica’s Instagram, I wouldn’t have even known you were alive.” 

There are only so many swigs she can take from her cup before she absolutely has to give her friend some kind of reply, but the fact that she can’t really talk about the trip without mentioning Veronica is the root of the lump in her throat, a thing so heavy that at times tonight, it's felt like it’s strangling her.

Veronica dropped her off at her house three hours ago, told her with a lively smirk not to wear "anything I wouldn't" and that they’d see each other at the party. Yes, her punctuality with everything ranges from almost late to actually late, but she should have been here already. And while Betty wonders why Veronica is not here, she’s simultaneously dreading the moment she sees her again.

Veronica is the first person she texts in the morning and the last person she FaceTimes. And in between these two points, Veronica is a continual presence in every second. But it's only been three hours. She shouldn't have even noticed it; shouldn't have been counting it; shouldn't care. This discomfort, this unease, this little ache inside of her—Betty recognizes this for what it is: her body, reacting to the absence of someone she shouldn't have been missing.

(I don't like her. I don't like Veronica.)

“It was great,” Betty tells Kevin with some forced thrill. “New York was really great.”

"Tell me all about..." Kevin trails off when Cheryl Blossom appears a short distance from them, as though conjured by some sort of evil sorcery. 

Cheryl doesn’t seem to have even noticed them; her attention is fixed on a boy Betty recognizes as one of the bench players for the football team, who apparently has made the grave mistake of attempting to talk to the girl.

"Your optimism is heartwarming and inspiring, Danny DeVito, but self-awareness is life's cornerstone." 

Discreetly, Betty searches for a way out of the vicinity, away from Cheryl's tornado of wrath, but Kevin betrays their position with one amused, badly-timed quip. 

"Is your sole purpose in life to spread misery and gloom everywhere we look?" 

Cheryl's eyes snap to their location, instantly alight with the challenge. The carefully-applied lipstick curves with a smile and Betty's heart sinks that she's seen all four of them and Veronica isn't here to provide the usual buffer. "You would be so lucky to have my existence related, even peripherally, to yours." She pauses, surveying them with predatory interest. There's something like a stretching of muscles going on; Cheryl, preparing for a slaughter. "As usual, Kevin Keller appears to aspire for the position of grandmaster of the socially insignificant parade."

"Listen, Cheryl, we don't want—" Archie's conciliatory words are interrupted. And Cheryl begins her slaughter.

"Troy Bolton, you are completely irrelevant and downright decorative to whatever developments occur in the world around you, and you— _Jughead_ ," the boy bristles and Betty almost flinches, such is the disdain in Cheryl's words, "as demeaning as it to have to utter such a name, I will be kind and remind you that you're most likely late to whatever emo convention you undoubtedly helped plan and should have been attending tonight in lieu of this party."

The speed of a machine-gun, the precision of a sniper rifle.

And then, a minute movement towards Betty. One dangerous flicker in the girl's eye. The strong thump of the music weakens into a dull throb in her ears and Betty braces herself, every nerve in her body tightening in dread. You’re strong, Betty reminds herself; you’re resilient to criticism and tougher than people think. 

But this is Cheryl, and…

Where's Veronica?

"Betty Cooper..." Her sister, her weight, her family's finances, her lack of cheerleading skill—there is so much material—"I'm so glad the Mantles were charitable when compiling their guest list. However..." Whatever Cheryl is going to say next, it's going to be bad. Betty takes a tiny, almost imperceptible step back, because she can tell she'll need the distance. Archie can tell, Kevin can tell, and Jughead is clenching his jaw like he wants to punch Cheryl, but Betty just wishes, so, so much, that Veronica was with her; "it's a pity that—"

And then it's like Betty _willed_ it to happen; Veronica materializes practically out of thin air at Betty's side. It's only in that instant, when Veronica's hand casually envelops hers, that Betty realizes how tightly she had been holding on to the corner of the wooden table beside them.

"Cheryl, hi. Great to see you," Veronica cuts in, with transparently-fake joy. "If you're here, who's guarding the gates of Hades?" 

The music rushes back, her muscles relax back into regular function, and Betty exhales.

"Your interruption, though untimely and inconvenient, is still most welcome," Cheryl addresses Veronica cordially. "Your objections to my choice of group recreational activity in my last party were truly taken to heart, Veronica." Betty's mind begins its dash into the corner wherein she keeps her most unpleasant memories, the corner in which she's shelved away most of the interactions she's had with Cheryl, and one in particular that Cheryl has had with Veronica, but she manages to halt that plunge just in time to hear Cheryl announce, "in thirty minutes we shall commence tonight's party game. And you shall have the privilege of selecting it." 

"Wait; what?"

As quickly as she appeared, Cheryl elegantly turns on her heels and disappears into the crowd, and although Betty could find her if she wanted to—the hair is really inescapable—she doesn't. Veronica exchanges commiserating nods with Archie and Jughead, gives Kevin a self-confident wink, but it's only when Veronica loosens her grasp on Betty's hand and turns around with a smile that Betty remembers, as her lungs stop working and an uncontrollable warmth wraps her body, that this is Veronica. The girl who was defending her and holding her hand is Veronica.

(I don't like you.)

"I've begun to think that Cheryl will break out in hives if she doesn't antagonize one of us at least once a day."

At the sound of the girl's voice directed at her, the world surrounding Betty becomes so unfocused that when Archie and Jughead respond, all Betty hears is a low, indistinguishable hum. She has to drag her eyes and attention away from Veronica and back to the boys.

"Does your 'Someone is About to Be Insulted by Cheryl' radar only ping when it's Betty?" Kevin asks with playful indignation. "She told Jughead to go to an emo convention!"

All three boys and Veronica laugh, but Betty's mind zeroes in on Veronica's laugh in particular, and Betty wonders fleetingly and with some dejection whether this is how things will always be from now on—Veronica, always at the forefront of her senses. Because if so, this is terrible. Truly, truly horrific. 

"So, how's the party been without me? Non-existent?" Veronica asks Betty cheerfully, nudging her with her shoulder.

Her hands burn, her cheeks burn, Betty wants to evaporate into the air around them.

"It's okay. We haven't been here long," she replies, clearing her throat nervously. 

Suddenly deflating into seriousness, Veronica winces. "Oh, I forgot there's something I have to discuss with Cheryl." 

Cheryl. Of course.

Betty concentrates on keeping an impartial expression and channels all her remaining strength into responding in a friendly, casual manner. "What about?"

"The assignments for our next routine." Veronica looks away from Betty to scan the crowd gathered in the Mantle residence's enormous living room area. "I don't think I should have the main part; I think she should assign it to someone else. Maybe someone with more tenure? There are better dancers in our squad."

Betty is biased, of course; she truly believes there is no better dancer than Veronica among the Vixens. But this is not the place—and definitely not the time—to state this.

"Who are you going to recommend?" Betty inquires, hoping Veronica isn't going to encourage Cheryl herself to take the part.

"I could recommend you." At Betty's instant, unbridled panic, Veronica chuckles. "Okay, so I'm interpreting the look of aghast terror as a hard pass from you. So maybe Tina? Or Lana?" 

Betty wants to engage Veronica in conversation, she wants to discuss the Vixen routine, she wants to tell her about a new lead Jughead obtained regarding a potential illegal gambling ring at Riverdale High, she wants to joke about how terrible the pizza at this party is going to be after having tasted pizza from New York, she wants to ask her about her (perfectly-fitting) dress, she wants to hear Veronica find a way, as she always does, to quote a book while offering comments on the latest developments of this party—and she wants, so badly, for Veronica to stay with her, and not go off to be flirted with by someone from the football team, or to discuss squad business with Cheryl. She wants Veronica to remain here, even if the proximity is awful and terrifying to her.

But she can't say any of these things out loud; she can't feel this way, because she can't like Veronica. (And she doesn't.) So, she lets go. "I think Tina would be great."

"Okay, I'll go find her and I'll meet you in twenty." 

That's when Kevin unceremoniously joins in to comment, "you look like someone who will inherit an island in the south of France when you turn 18—text me if you need help kicking the admirers off you."

With a gleam in her eye, Veronica begins to walk away and shrugs nonchalantly; "what can I say—my milkshake brings all the boys and girls and genderqueers to my yard and I like them all."

God. She is so, so pretty.

When Betty's eyes find Kevin again, he's grinning. "So. Tell me about New York."

Less than five minutes later, Betty is carefully climbing down a narrow staircase leading to the house's basement to retrieve extra cups, having volunteered in order to find a valid, unquestionable reason to remove herself from the crowd for a bit and forego having to tell Kevin about her day. This section of the house is relatively quiet and the staircase and basement are not particularly well-lit, so she stops halfway down the stairs, and leans back against the wall, enjoying the peace while it lasts. But only a few moments into her reprieve, Betty is alerted to the girls' voices as they approach the doorway from which the staircase descends.

"...the best way to reinforce discipline." Cheryl's voice is faint, but Betty picks up an edge of irritation. She looks up from her step in the staircase and with a swift burst of disappointment, catches sight of Veronica standing in friendly proximity to Cheryl. However, she's mostly just surprised the girls haven't glanced down the doorway and spotted her. She's only halfway down.

There's something about the sight of Veronica standing even remotely closely to Cheryl that will never, ever sit well with Betty. That could be because Cheryl has never treated her as anything other than a lesser extension of Polly, so every single experience Betty has ever had with Cheryl has been negative. Or it could be because Veronica, her best friend, actually gets along with Cheryl. Had Veronica not been humbled by unexpected poverty, or perhaps encountered Cheryl seated in a booth at Pop's instead of Betty, Veronica might have chosen the redhead to be her Riverdale best friend, not Betty. And this is a terrible thought that grinds and chews on the corners of her heart.

Betty watches them with a hopeless pang in her chest but expects them to keep walking past the doorway. Instead, they pause, and carry on their conversation right there. 

Cheryl is crossing her arms with apparent irritation, but Veronica counters her calmly. "Criticizing everyone en masse to prove a point is not, in any way, a good approach to this. You might as well be swatting flies with a hammer."

"And your suggestion is?" The question is so sharp that it sounds like an invitation to a duel. 

True to her usual ways, Veronica appears completely unfazed. "Perhaps give other Vixens, besides you or I, a chance to have a spotlight in our routine."

"Do you have any specific names in mind?" Betty can't actually see Cheryl rolling her eyes, but she's about 150% positive that the action is taking place.

"No one in particular—" Veronica begins, but is hastily interrupted.

"I meant what I've stated time and time again, that I'm looking for fire, intensity, and sizzle when conceiving every Vixen routine." The girl's sentence isn't even over yet, and Betty knows where it's going—the customary speech on squad excellency and high standards and etc.—and she's already heard this countless times so she considers continuing her descent to the basement, if only to avoid listening to it all once again. She even begins to turn around, to face the downward steps and take the first step down. 

But then, Cheryl continues. "And if you're talking about your girlfriend Blandy Cooper, well—let's just say I've seen more facial expressions on corpses."

In one brisk second, Betty allows her mind to echo and absorb the insult, and her temper to boil, and by the end of the same second, she has turned back to face the open doorway and is announcing, with an evenness that surprises even herself, "she wasn't talking about me." 

Both girls instantly look down the doorway, gazes finding Betty several steps from the top, looking at them with defiance. Cheryl is even more annoyed now, which sends a rush of satisfaction through Betty's veins, while Veronica seems truly surprised to see Betty there at all.

The redhead does not miss a beat. "That's what you deny? Not the girlfriend part?"

Betty's firm posture slacks a bit when she realizes what she's just said, and slacks even further when Cheryl raises a challenging eyebrow, but Veronica immediately interjects. 

"You're looking for confidence. I get it. But you won't instill confidence in anyone if you don't allow them to showcase their skill and talent occasionally." 

Cheryl's eyes seem to linger on Betty for a moment, before they pivot back to an impatient Veronica. Almost as if she's anticipating, and perhaps even hoping for, a negative reaction from Betty, Cheryl takes a step forward and is subsequently only a few uncomfortable inches from Veronica. Betty clenches her jaw.

"My squad. My rules."

Veronica matches Cheryl's adamant statement with a steely glare. “You’re right—this is your squad. They are your rules.” Then, she chuckles humorlessly. “And now that I’ve finally agreed with you on something, hell can open its ice-skating rink.”

“It’s such wondrous satisfaction, the establishment of an accord between equal minds. Is it not?” Cheryl leans forward, just a bit. Veronica stiffens. And Betty sees red. "We're not in the closet anymore, Veronica. So you can back away if you want."

Betty is vaguely aware of her hands. Of her palms. Of her nails. She knows what she's doing, knows it's going to leave a mark. But she can't stop. 

"Be a better captain," a resigned Veronica says, finally cutting through the short but heavy silence. When she does take a step back, Cheryl watches the movement with a smirk. "And please don't mind if I do back away—your usual fragrance of fire and brimstone can be off-putting at times."

"Ten minutes," Cheryl reminds curtly. "Then you'll be joining _moi_ for the second half of these festivities.”

“I don’t think you could have made that invitation any less appealing,” Veronica responds dryly.

Cheryl is apparently impervious to Veronica’s acerbic words. “And don’t forget—you will, in addition, be picking our group game."

"However shall I contain my excitement," Veronica sighs sarcastically.

Then, Cheryl is off again and before Betty can actually process the relief from her departure, she finds herself watching her best friend descend the staircase carefully until she is facing Betty, one step above her so that they are at eye level.

Betty feels a kind of sensory overload suddenly; the light from the open doorway is cascading down behind Veronica to where they are, but Betty can still see the ridges in her eyes, the texture of her lips, the flush in her cheeks, the faint glimmer from her pearls. It’s enough to make her a bit light-headed and floods her mind with alarmed questions—have they ever been eye-to-eye? Have they ever been this close? Is Veronica noticing this, too?

(There is nothing to notice. I don't like her.)

"Should I ask why you're hiding down here, eavesdropping on conversations?" Veronica inquires with fond amusement, voice soft and eyes wandering around the dim space.

Betty grabs the banister with a tight, steadying grip, and explains simply, voice closely-controlled, "I was getting cups."

"In a dark basement, at a secluded part of the house, as one does," the girl complements, a corner of her mouth quirking up when Betty’s face begins to display her embarrassment.

"There's a karaoke machine upstairs." Betty doesn’t bother hiding her attempt to divert attention from her heated cheeks, motioning vaguely in the direction of the living room. "You should sing something."

Veronica tilts her head to the side, as if trying to determine whether Betty is being serious. "If you wanted to experience my iconic rendition of 'Bobby Jean' again, you could have just asked; I'm certainly willing."

Betty chuckles at this, warmed by the thought that even though she's basically disintegrating with anxiety at being this close to Veronica, this is still her best friend; their familiarity didn’t abruptly disappear after a day in New York pushed her inside Veronica's inescapable gravity field.

Her mouth twitches, wanting to curve into a smile. “You know what; I don’t think the people in this party can handle your talent.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to serenade you in private.” At this, Betty does laugh, taking in with awe the sight in front of her; a charismatic, lionhearted girl who has absolutely no idea how thoroughly she's taken hold of Betty's mind.

“ _Well, I came to your house the other day, your mother said you went away, she said there was nothing I could have done_...” Veronica's singing dissolves into laughter and Betty beams with happiness as she claps and attempts to imitate the cheer of a crowd.

“Thank you, Riverdale,” Veronica performs an elaborate and exaggerated wave towards the imaginary crowd in the empty basement behind Betty. “I will be here for all of the foreseeable future.” Her cheeks start to warm up when she notices, self-consciously, that Veronica’s eyes are wandering upon her face, until her friend says with a grin, “I could really get used to this height equality.”

Oh. So she did notice.

This is a side of Betty that she doesn’t unveil very often, the one that is bolder, and produces sarcastic, teasing remarks. But Veronica brings it out, for some reason. “I could have gotten a ladder somewhere if you wanted to be as tall as me—you didn't need to follow me down here.”

“The ego of the height-privileged…” Veronica retorts, serious but with an ill-hidden smile. “Sometimes I understand why Napoleon felt compelled to conquer an entire continent.” Her eyes sweep their surroundings once again. “And now we’re standing on a staircase—the short jokes just tell themselves, don’t they?”

Well, she left herself wide open for this one. “Should I not tell them? Are they _beneath_ me?”

In the second after she delivers her sly dig, Betty finds that there are very few things in the world that feel as great as getting caught in the brilliance of Veronica’s smile when she’s half-scoffing at a light-hearted insult, half-laughing in admiration of a good joke. The radiance of it dissolves every thought in her head and she’s not sure Veronica has ever looked at her like this; isn’t sure _anyone_ has ever looked at her like this. 

Kevin's voice abruptly punctures the silence in the basement. “Can I please have my best friend back?” Immediately, Betty snaps to attention and creates some precautionary distance by descending to the step directly behind and under the one she had been standing on, while Veronica is turning to her side, her head towards the doorway. “Stop hogging her, Lodge; you’ve had her the whole day.”

This is when Betty notices, with abject horror, that by descending one step, she's now shorter than Veronica, and more importantly, she’s now eye-level with Veronica’s cleavage. And it’s not that chest areas have ever really held her attention, but perhaps because this particular one is attached to Veronica, Betty feels her mouth instantly dry.

(No. I don't like Veronica. And I can't be attracted to her.)

“Are we about to engage in a heated custody battle, Keller?” an amiable Veronica defies, completely unaware of Betty’s panicked chest-staring. Betty barely has time to tear her eyes away—Veronica turns back to her with a large, conspiratorial smile. “Oh, you're down there. Hey, looks like you’re a hot commodity, Cooper.” 

"Hurry up!" Kevin urges impatiently from the doorway. "By the way, V, we need you to go outbitch Cheryl. She just told a girl that her hair looks like a disaster cloud and it doesn't look like she's stopping her rampage any time soon."

Veronica throws her hands up as though surrendering to his inevitable insistence. "Fine! I'll be on my way—give me 2 seconds."

As soon as Veronica ascertains that Kevin has left the vicinity, she turns to Betty again with a luminous grin.

"Before we go, allow me to say," Veronica begins with mock solemnity, and Betty's smile grows instantly in expectation of the joke that's sure to come, "that in this year of our Lord, 2017, as we stood on these hallowed steps, I was, briefly, taller than you." Veronica places an assuring hand on Betty's shoulder, who feels the skin on that spot burn as though her friend's hand is a fiery coal. The heat begins to creep into her neck, but before it reaches her face and betrays her agitation, Betty clears her throat. 

In her most encouraging, proud tone, she says softly, "go outbitch Cheryl, Napoleon."

\--

It’s not that Betty has ever been a particularly positive person; her views on life and expectations for the outcomes of her decisions tend to land staunchly on the pessimistic side of things. But even so, _this_ , she did not expect. Cheryl gathered the “usual suspects”—the football team, cheerleaders, miscellaneous athletes, and other members of the school’s upper echelon in the Mantle living room, placed about two dozen papers inside a small bucket hat, and persuaded a disinterested Veronica to pull out a paper which would name the game they would play. 

Betty had expected the game to be, for once, something innocuous and relatively nondramatic. But Veronica’s instant aggravated eye-roll tipped Betty off to the contents of the paper before they were actually revealed, and Betty realized with dismay that even when left entirely up to chance, in every party she ever attends there will be a game of seven minutes in heaven to wreak havoc in friendships and relationships.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Cheryl had announced triumphantly, reading the small paper she snatched from Veronica’s hand and practically levitating with satisfaction. There were excited murmurs from all around the center table around which everyone sat—Betty, Kevin, and Archie seemed to be the only ones not quite as enthusiastic. (Jughead has struck up a friendship with the food counter and no one has even attempted to extract him.)

Now, Veronica is digging through the hat to open the other papers, and asking heatedly, “did you just fill this hat with copies of this same paper?” Her disappointed pout indicates to Betty that no, Cheryl’s conduct was not fraudulent in this case.

“Do not insult my honor with such baseless accusation,” the redhead scoffs, rolling her eyes.

Veronica holds out one of the papers with horror. “Strip hide-and-seek? What the h—”

Smugly, Cheryl interrupts her by abruptly extending her an empty bottle from a nearby table. “And we shall never know. Now… I believe tonight's inaugural spin should be yours.”

Amid the cheers and eager chatter that erupts when Veronica takes the bottle, Betty notices her friend’s eyebrows knitted closely together and the pursing of her lips, and knows instantly why Veronica doesn’t want to spin the bottle—there is someone here she doesn’t want that bottle to land on. And Betty has only two guesses: Archie and Cheryl. For some surprising, unexplainable, and previously unfathomable reason, she’d much rather have Veronica go into the closet with Archie than Cheryl.

Veronica places the bottle on the surface of the table, her hand hovering reluctantly above it. “I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.” Then, she spins.

As the spinning gradually slows, Betty is scared of how fervently she’s hoping the bottle doesn’t point to Cheryl. And it doesn’t—when it stops, it’s Reggie the bottle has chosen, much to the delight and approval of the students gathered. Reggie, whose birthday they are celebrating. Reggie, who is visibly drunk and is currently high-fiving every surrounding boy with alarming unsteadiness.

While Betty raises her gaze from the seated Reggie to the standing Veronica, the girl is already turning to Cheryl with a shake of head. “I'm not going into a closet with someone that inebriated,” Veronica argues adamantly. “Reggie smells like the unwashed floor of a distillery.”

To her credit, Cheryl doesn’t disagree. The redhead consoles an outraged Reggie and then, just as Betty is easing back into worrying about whom Veronica’s second-attempt spin will land on, she flinches back into the couch when the bottle is suddenly dropped onto her lap. 

Cheryl circles her impishly, as though weaving some invisible web around Betty. “If my recollection serves me well, you have only been in the closet once; with Kevin Keller, which is ironic but hardly mentionable.” Kevin scoffs loudly; Cheryl continues undeterred, quite obviously pleased with how seamlessly she’s managed to go from inconveniencing Veronica, to annoying Betty. “Your first spin awaits you.”

Betty’s eyes flicker to Veronica, who lifts an eyebrow questioningly, as if asking whether she would like her to intervene. Then, they dart to Cheryl, who’s sat down beside Archie and is silently daring her, in the most obnoxious way, to back out. In answer to both girls, Betty impulsively sets the bottle down upon the table with a steady grip, and spins.

If she’s ever experienced a longer set of seconds than in the moments following her release of the bottle, Betty can’t remember it. Through each rotation, Betty’s heart clenches tighter and tighter as she inwardly prays and pleads, please don’t land on Cheryl, please don’t land on Cheryl, please don’t…

It stops. And it’s pointing to Veronica.

Oh. My. _God_.

It washes over her in an unsubtle, paralyzing rush. There is shock. Then there is horror. Then there’s something resembling nausea. And through it all, Betty thinks she’s going to have a heart attack. It baffles her suddenly that she was worried about the bottle pointing to Cheryl when _Veronica_ was also an eligible target.

Inwardly, Betty is melting into a hyperventilating pool of anxiety—outwardly, she’s blinking twice, vacantly, alternating her stare between the tip of the bottle and Veronica’s discreetly stunned expression, which lasts only a fleeting, briefest of seconds before she’s turning to Cheryl with a charmingly cocky smile.

Her heart is palpitating with terror, but Betty’s mind is devoid of any coherent thought, and she numbly stands up and makes her way to where Veronica is standing, as Cheryl practically snarls, “not that you two needed another opportunity to practice your attention-seeking faux-lesbian stunts, but alas, the universe has presented you with one.”

A self-assured Veronica grabs Betty’s hand, unknowingly sending a surge of awareness through her that partially wakes her senses, and in what feels like the shortest fraction of a second in human history, Betty finds herself inside the surprisingly cramped, terribly-lit, coat-lined closet just beside the Mantle living room. 

For all the times she's unwillingly flashbacked to their kiss at the Vixen tryouts, the idea of being in a closet with Veronica for seven minutes in heaven is still surreal, to say the least. And it's not that she expects anything to happen in here between them—in the one time she went into a closet with Kevin for this same game, all they did was discuss whether turtlenecks were making a comeback or not—but it's still...not an entirely comfortable situation.

Veronica studies their surroundings for a second, and Betty wishes she could do the same instead of straining with the effort it takes not to stare at her friend.

Chewing on a corner of her lip, Veronica turns her focus back to Betty with a small shrug. “The Mantles could buy a small country and yet, their closet is exceedingly drab.”

She should say something. She knows she should. Remaining silent will betray the panic in her mind and the rigidity in her body. “It smells like my grandpa,” she blurts out, then almost slaps herself with regret at letting that slip.

Veronica lets out a carefree laugh that appears to literally brighten the dim room and soothes some of Betty’s embarrassment. “Well, we’ll pretend to be somewhere else so as not to conjure memories of your centenarian grandfather,” she proposes lightly. “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?”

Where would she go?

It’s like the waves of an ocean, crashing and washing over a rock—the memories bursting inside her brain, of a lively Veronica beaming inside the cab as she motioned to buildings blurring by, tucking pieces of hair behind her ear absentmindedly as the wind gently untucked them, offering a spoonful of her ice cream in exchange for a bit of Betty’s, distractedly tugging on the sweater she borrowed from Betty and joking that she’s dressed like a tourist.

New York. That’s where she would go. New York, with Veronica.

(I don't like you. I don't. I _can't_.)

“I would go to any old, overflowing library,” Veronica sighs wistfully, answering her own question. “Probably sit by a well-worn escritoire, read something I love.”

Betty swallows hard, the painful lump in her throat fighting back even when she looks away from Veronica. Her second choice is even more painful than the first, but it’s easier to verbalize. “I guess I would go wherever Polly is.”

A certain kind of heaviness settles squarely inside Betty’s chest as soon as the words leave her—the ache of remembering that she hasn’t even heard her sister’s voice in months, exacerbated by the effort of suppressing all the Veronica-related memories that her aggravating mind continues to bring up. 

“I can help you find Polly,” Veronica offers softly, tilting her head to meet Betty’s eyes. “If you want.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start looking,” Betty admits dejectedly.

Her friend holds her gaze, as steadfast as she always is. “Money. That’s where you start.” After she spots a small frown emerging on Betty’s face, Veronica adds quickly, “my dad always said that’s how you can find most things; by tracking the money. Where it comes from, and where it goes. So if your parents are the only ones who know where she is, then that’s where you start.”

Now that her thoughts are on Polly and her whereabouts, Betty finds her mind spiraling into disarray—she loosens the control she was attempting to maintain on her words. “I think Cheryl doesn’t like me in the squad because she compares me to Polly and I don’t measure up.”

Immediately, something like fierce disagreement transforms Veronica’s expression. “Betty,” she begins firmly, “I’ve never met your sister, but I know you are not an inferior version of her. And besides, no one should be compared to anyone. I wish I could convince you…” Veronica lets out a frustrated breath. “The Venn diagram that has the things you think are your flaws, and the things that make you a unique, amazing person—it’s a circle.”

It takes a second for Betty to understand what the girl is saying, but when she does, she feels like Veronica is tearing the layers of her heart and pulling them away, one by one to touch her core, and she wonders if this is what it feels like, to legitimately swoon. 

It's dawning on her, really dawning on her, that this is how she's always going to feel. This thing New York infected her with—this sensation of being magnetized to Veronica, of feeling a kind of helplessness whenever she's not with her, this constant want she has to juggle inside of her—all those feelings she's been trying to hide away in her heart, that she’s hoped all day would go away once she got back to Riverdale, they're not going away.

(I like you.)

“We have four minutes and then it’s back to the hellhole of Cheryl’s company,” Veronica murmurs after checking the cellphone’s timer. Betty watches her hesitate, a sad reluctance clouding her features. “Listen, I have to apologize. I never did, for kissing you unexpectedly and without your permission, at the Vixen tryouts.”

_Just trust me._

Veronica kissed her, once. And they never talked about it since.

“It was fine,” Betty assures with barely-concealed discomfort, voice unexpectedly gravelly. The things she would give to not have to talk about this right now... “I didn’t mind.”

Her friend is still watching her with apprehension, visibly conducting some sort of mental debate with herself. “Had you ever kissed a girl before that?”

Jesus Christ. Her body is going to burst into flames.

There is so little courage inside of Betty that she’s not entire sure at this point why she hasn’t already kicked the door down to flee to some remote, uninhabited place on Earth.

“No. I actually...” She hadn’t even really kissed a _guy_ before then. Veronica was—and still is—her first kiss. Betty clears her throat because otherwise, her voice will most definitely not leave her. “No, I hadn't.”

Veronica is mortified. “Oh my God, so that was the first time?”

Please, please, please, let’s change the subject.

“It wasn’t bad.” Betty’s attempt at a firm denial sounds like a flustered mumble.

“It was in public, to make a point to observers, and done without your consent.” The girl buries her face inside her hands and releases a muffled groan. “Don’t mind me; I’m having an existential crisis.”

Her mind wants to replay the kiss; she senses the first memory—Veronica’s careful pull of her hand—peeking from the edge of her consciousness and she rushes madly to stop it by countering the girl’s negative assessment of their kiss with the one indisputably positive consequence of it. “It made Cheryl mad,” she utters abruptly. When Veronica raises her face and meets her gaze with curiosity, she further explains, heart erratic inside her chest, “us, kissing. And then you telling her off. It made her mad. And that was great.” Obviously pleased with her reasoning, Veronica eases into a smile. “Almost as great as getting the spot,” she adds with an agitated nod.

“Well, she’ll be pissed off when we get out of here in two minutes, that’s for sure,” the girl states contently, reaching out to touch the seam of an old fur coat hanging nearby. “If you walk out of here with your lipstick smudged, maybe she will instantaneously combust with rage.”

It’s a joke, but Betty pictures the scene nonetheless. She imagines Veronica’s index finger, pressing smoothly against her lips, smearing it slowly.

And then, another image: the memory she can’t fight any longer, the memory that she’s tried so fruitlessly to bury, the memory of the last time Veronica smudged her lipstick. Tryouts. _Don’t freak out; just trust me._ A hand, pulling her own. Lips, pressed against hers; her body’s millisecond-long jerk of surprise. 

Cheryl is right—Betty was the first girl Veronica kissed in Riverdale. She wasn't the second, though; that was Cheryl. But the thought that twists Betty's gut, circulates in her bloodstream, and makes her ache inside, is that she really wants to be the third. And the fourth. And the fifth, and the sixth…

(I like you so much.)

Uneasy panic rushes through her body like a resolute river stream, but for every ounce of fear she’s feeling, there’s an equally weighty ounce of bravery emerging from the part of her that wants, so badly, to kiss Veronica again. And against all reason and every warning erupting inside her mind, she says it. “You should kiss me again.”

Veronica’s hand falls from the coat, her eyes flash with stupefaction, and her perfectly-shaped brows seem to be reaching for her hairline. “Really?” And, now she can add, her voice sounds about an octave higher than usual.

If she tries to speak she will probably faint, so Betty resorts to responding with a tight smile and a small nod.

Clearing her throat, Veronica shifts her weight from one foot to another, sufficiently recovered from her initial shock to deliberate this. “Um… okay. You must really want to piss her off.”

“I do. A lot.” Betty takes an audacious step forward, and a tiny part of her is amused when Veronica widens her eyes. It’s kind of fun, unnerving Veronica. The girl is usually unaffected by even the strongest of circumstances, so being privy to this—a flustered agitation simmering just underneath the surface of her countenance—is new, and exhilarating.

“Okay. Let's piss her off.”

It happens in small, deliberate motions. Veronica holds her gaze steadily while she takes a step forward, and is within a breath of Betty. She holds her gaze when she reaches for Betty’s hand, hanging tensely at her side, and envelops it so gently that it’s like she sends a slow, calming current through her muscles. She holds her gaze when her other hand slides gradually from her wrist and up her arm, to rest on her neck. She holds it even when she smiles at her with the tiniest trace of timidity. And Betty’s heartbeats, which had been drumming against her ribcage with coiled up energy, slow to a languid pace, in hope, in anticipation, until it finally happens.

When it finally happens, it’s warm and soft and it melts the world around her. It's familiar yet simultaneously new, and it makes Betty’s heart soar, makes her limbs weak, makes her feel too big for her own body. It dulls every one of her senses but the ones attuned to Veronica; the ones that can feel the touch of her hand, the gentle press of her lips, the taste of her tongue, and the scent of her hair. It makes her brain stall every thought except the one that whispers, this isn’t enough.

It would never be enough, now she knew. She needed Veronica today, and tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and there just doesn't seem to be any space in her mind to conceive of a day in which she won't need Veronica close by, a world in which she'll be okay if she can't reach out and pull Veronica to her and feel her warmth, and hear her voice, and watch her smile and taste her lips.

When it ends, it’s because Veronica pulls back and watches her with apprehension, turning off the phone’s alarm without sparing the device a single look.

Betty wants to kiss her again. She also wants to run away and never have to face her friend again.

Instead of kissing her again, or running away, Betty clears her throat and asks, as evenly as she can manage, “is it smudged?”

Veronica hesitates for a brief second, then nods. She purses her lips, and Betty’s eyes dart to the area to follow the motion. “Definitely smudged.” She reaches for the door, then pauses. “You know…”

The door has opened, just a bit. From the small slit of the opening, Betty catches sight of a commotion outside—students, moving all about. 

Inside, there is no movement. There is no sound, either, save for a quiet, barely audible note from Veronica. “I would have gone back to New York with you. If I could have gone anywhere in the world instead of this closet, I mean. The library was my second choice.”

Betty waits. She waits for herself to respond; to tell Veronica that she was her first choice, too. But Veronica doesn’t wait—she opens the door and returns to the world.

Reggie is being held down by 3 boys, the bottle is flying from one corner of the living room to the other, there are shouts, spilled drinks, a mess of students pushing and pulling one another, and a generalized mayhem unlike any Betty has ever seen.

Betty had thought her world had shifted to some incomprehensible shape after today, and had spun out of its axis after Veronica kissed her a minute ago. And it seems like in the outside world, things were not much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to how long this chapter got without me covering everything i wanted to cover, the whole story just got another chapter longer--in case anyone wanted to know how biblical the length of this story is going to be.
> 
> Thanks again for all the kind comments! I never thought the response would be so awesome. 
> 
> P.S. A huge thanks to my beta, aussie-sass, for allowing me to send her War and Peace-sized messages so i could bounce off ideas for plot points.


	5. Sunday

It takes an alarmed Betty about 2 seconds to take in the surrounding mayhem, and another second to spot Cheryl Blossom calmly perched atop a nearby table, high-heeled legs crossed and dangling gracefully as she sips from a red plastic cup and watches the chaos with indifference. There is a slice of pizza being thrown across the room, a table that has been flipped over is sliding across the mahogany floor, and someone is yelling out "WHAT IF THE NEIGHBORS CALL THE COPS" and yet, Cheryl's face is displaying nothing besides some vague disapproval as she beholds the chaos in front of them. Once Betty and Veronica emerge from the closet, however, and Betty's eyes lock with Cheryl's, the girl finally registers some emotion—annoyance, to be more exact, in a look that is a strange mix of glower and frown. 

Betty turns her attention back to Veronica; all determined, intense gaze sweeping the living room to piece together the scene, and Betty feels it burn upon the surface of her lips, the lingering taste of their not-five-minutes-old kiss. Had any half-filled cup been available nearby, she would have drank from it, to try to wash the sensation away. Instead, she braces her muscles more tightly around her frame and wills herself to stop. Thinking. About. This. 

Then, Veronica is boldly advancing towards the center of the mess, and in the following minute, the details emerge: Reggie Mantle, in true red-blooded teenage jock manner, had woken up from his drunken stupor halfway through Betty and Veronica’s excursion into the closet, and indignantly protested having been unwillingly skipped in their game of seven minutes in heaven, and missed his opportunity to “explore a couple of bases” with Veronica. His resentment had escalated into irritation, and after an inconvenienced Cheryl had enlisted Archie to assist her in escorting Reggie outside and preventing him from bursting into the closet and interrupting the girls inside (which… surprises Betty), the room had evenly split into those backing Archie and Cheryl, and those backing Reggie. 

In the midst of the tumult, Betty follows Veronica when the latter walks towards Reggie, still being held down on a couch by three other boys. They’ve barely approached him, when Reggie wolf-whistles the two of them and slurs flirtatiously, “can we go back to the closet and I'll be the meat in that sandwich?”

Immediately, Veronica rebuffs with ease, “that's the most idiotic thing you've ever said, and you've already established an impressively high bar."

Reggie is apparently unaffected by her dry rejection. "I'll take Betty if you can't handle all this, Lodge," he adds, undeterred and winking suggestively at Betty. 

Betty recoils slightly at the suggestion, but it's Veronica who actually displays the most significant reaction, her entire countenance transforming into an icy glare. "Oh, you are in for a rude awakening if you think you're going anywhere near her." 

Reggie attempts to push himself off the couch again, and the three suffering boys struggle to keep him pinned down. Betty is about to pull Veronica away from the eye of this hurricane, but she stalls mid-motion when Veronica leans forward, lays a hand on the boy's chest, and murmurs, "because this is your birthday, because my bottle did point to you, and because you need to stop destroying your own house."

Betty knows it's going to happen before it even begins to, and as though her body wishes to spare her mind, she automatically averts her eyes, and doesn't quite catch Veronica's lips briefly make contact with Reggie's. What she feels instead is her heart turning over in her throat, and what she sees—because of course, that's where her gaze lands—is Cheryl, watching the scene intently, oscillating her attention between Veronica and Betty. 

Kevin swoops in almost immediately, pulls Betty and Veronica by their arms, and once they are removed from the turmoil of the living room and are gathered by an empty corner of the foyer, he whispers urgently, "we gotta go! I heard one of the neighbors called the station—where my dad works, in case you need a reminder—to report this party going past midnight and the underage drinking, and I don't want to be grounded till the year 2037 for lying about sleeping over at Archie's."

They're huddled so tightly together that Betty's mind spins for a bit with the realization of how close she is to Veronica again. She's so close she can smell her perfume, can see the curve of her eyebrow, curving even higher as she processes Kevin's advisory. She's so close Betty wouldn't have to reach out very far to touch her. Or to kiss her again.

She smothers that thought right away.

"Can you drop us off at my place?" Veronica whispers back, and Betty is yanked back to their present situation.

Crap. 

Crap crap crap. 

She's supposed to sleep over at Veronica's house tonight. That was the plan; the reason why they met at Veronica's house this morning before getting a ride to the train station to go to New York, so Betty could leave some clothes, hygiene items, and her computer, and they could work on her essay some more and then sleep.

Oh my God. A sleepover. At Veronica's. The mere thought grabs her by the neck and seems to strangle her—what a colossal mistake.

"Yeah; I’ll drop you two off while Archie and Jug will meet me later at Archie's."

Betty vaguely picks up on their agreed plan of action, but most of her brain is still absolutely reeling, because _Jesus Christ_. Is there a way to get out of this? Without tipping Veronica off that Betty's heart and mind have apparently begun to revolve around her since this morning? How the hell is she supposed to—

"Okay, give me a second and I'll be right back," Veronica requests, and then briskly hurries off.

Not that she really knows for sure whether Veronica rushed off to talk to Cheryl, but she _knows_. And she's right. It's a quick, seemingly business-like discussion, in which Veronica's motions make it apparent that she must be forwarding Kevin's information to Cheryl. But some ugly, unwanted part of her still chooses this moment to rear its head, distract her from her sleepover-prompted panic attack, and ask her, why does Veronica care? Why tell Cheryl? Why not tell literally anyone else from the squad?

And the thing is, she's aware that this is a dangerous path to be led down on—it may start with innocuous questions but ultimately, it leads to wondering what Cheryl has that she doesn't, wondering what Veronica sees in her, wondering what Veronica likes in her—and Betty just isn't the kind of person who does this; she's not the kind of girl who compares herself to other girls; she can't be this person, this isn't her. This might just be the worst part of all this; the awareness that she has this side of her that uses her unfriendly past with Cheryl to inflame her recent Veronica-related uneasiness.

"Okay, I'm ready," Veronica announces when she makes her way back. And then, they're off in Kevin's truck. 

It's a snug fit once again; Betty is squeezed between Kevin and Veronica as the former speeds off. And it's kind of annoying that her body seems to like this, while her panicked mind absolutely hates it.

"Are you okay?" Betty is a bit startled when Veronica quietly addresses her. 

(I am letting myself be taken to a sleepover at your house. I am the opposite of okay.)

"Yeah, I'm okay," Betty replies in a murmur. Suddenly, she's not quite sure why Veronica would ask her that in the first place, since she's pretty sure her face isn't displaying the discomfort she's feeling. So she follows that up with what she hopes is an unemotional, "do I not seem okay?"

"No, I mean..." Veronica is studying her so closely that she bites a corner of her lip and Betty has to try very hard not to kiss her again. "I know when you look one way but you feel another."

This will be the hardest part about hiding her feelings. Hiding them from Veronica, who's learned her so well in such a short span of time. And that's what it is, really: only a matter of time, until Betty loses the frail control she has over this entire situation.

"So sometime this next week, I need one of you two to go flirt with this clerk from a store so I can get a discount on this really amazing coat even though the sale has technically ended—" Kevin begins enthusiastically, before Betty summarily interrupts him, jumping at the opportunity to change the subject.

"Why can't you just ask for the discount?"

Kevin almost scoffs at the apparent obviousness of the answer. "Because tragically, he's heterosexual and only wiles of the feminine variety can sway him."

"Sure, I'll do it," Veronica agrees simply, and at this, even with her nerves and her discomfort, Betty chooses to speak up.

"No way; Veronica is the worst at negotiating prices, Kev." While Veronica gasps with indignation, Kevin bursts out laughing and Betty takes both reactions as encouragement to continue. "One time I asked her to back me up when I went to the store to pick up something—I was a day late so there was a fee—and all she did was recite one of Shakespeare's sonnets."

Kevin is still laughing, Veronica is rolling her eyes good-naturedly and Betty feels a familiar warmth of self-satisfaction. 

"I'll have you know that it wasn't a sonnet; it was Portia's speech on mercy from _The Merchant of Venice_ , which was highly apropos." 

There is shared laughter and the buoyant happiness of camaraderie between friends, and a frail hope inside Betty, many times dashed already, that maybe her infatuation with Veronica is actually going away, and her feelings will return to strictly platonic grounds once again.

"You're incorrigible," Kevin comments fondly, reaching across Betty to tap Veronica's thigh.

Her eyes follow the movement but stop to linger at the _half-uncovered_ thigh, as the hem of her dress has slid up a bit and— 

Goddammit. No platonic grounds in sight, apparently.

Five minutes later, Kevin drops them off at The Pembrooke's doorstep and Betty hesitates at the entrance, still in baffled disbelief that she's actually here, at Veronica's home, when she's spent practically the entire afternoon and evening wanting to run away to the opposite end of whatever part of the world this girl is in.

They make their way through the grand, marbled entrance, and one brief glance at the sculptures and art fixtures and spiraled staircases reminds Betty that for all the talk of the Lodges' newfound poverty, The Pembrooke is still a more spectacular, spacious home than about 99% of Riverdale. 

Veronica is leading them towards the kitchen, and Betty only notices it when the brightness of the marble counters bursts into her vision. "So, I'm a little bit hungry. I didn't have a chance to get any pizza."

Betty did, and it wasn't particularly great. "My plate had two slices," she tells her with a shrug. "I ate one and the other ended up getting thrown across the living room."

Nodding, Veronica chuckles, probably conjuring the same memory. "The sight of an airborne pizza slice is memorable for all the wrong reasons." She sighs with a hint of exhaustion and then notes with a small smile, "we might be in a quandary; I don't think anything is open this late to deliver, Smithers has the night off, and I also don't have a night chef anymore."

Betty tries to understand what Veronica means with that last part. "You don't have a what?"

Now Veronica is the one who looks confused. "You know... an overnight chef." 

"Why would you need one?" Betty asks, genuinely curious.

Immediately, Veronica's expression morphs into that look that always makes everyone laugh, the one Betty thinks is terribly endearing, the one she has when she realizes that some part of her life she's always taken for granted is not, in fact, normal. (Like the time Archie and Jughead attempted to explain what a carpool is, and five minutes later, realization seemed to finally dawn on her, and she said, "I had to share my helicopter with another family once because their pilot was ill. That's what you mean, right?")

This is the same look; slightly embarrassed, a bit taken aback and flustered, eager to direct the focus somewhere else. "Anyway, no place is open this late except for Pop's, and since my mom is working the night shift there right now, that's a no-go. So I guess you'll have to eat something I can cook."

Betty sits down slowly at the counter, glancing around at an immaculate kitchen that looks as luxurious as the rest of The Pembrooke, and doesn't appear to have ever been used. "And what can you cook?" she asks distractedly when Veronica opens a sleek and enormous refrigerator stockpiled with groceries. "Oh, I see some eggs."

"Um. Right. Anything else you like?" The hesitation in her friend's voice is unmistakable and instantly pulls Betty's lips into a grin.

"Do you not know how to make eggs?" 

Veronica turns from the fridge and props a hand defiantly on her hip. "That is not something you can prove and I will always deny it."

It's hard to remember that the world is bigger than them, bigger than this kitchen and this house, when they are exchanging teasing, accusing looks, and Betty is laughing with fond disbelief.

"Oh my God, Veronica. Do you want me to cook something for us instead?" 

"Of course not," Veronica responds briskly. "You're my guest here; don't be absurd." And then the hesitation is back, much more pronounced than before. "I really only know how to make one thing. Edible, I mean. I can try to cook a variety of foods but most of them would warrant a visit from the fire department or the CDC." 

Betty scans the kitchen, expecting Veronica to pull out a pan or a pot, or show her some kind of vegetable or protein; something to indicate the "one thing" she knows how to cook. 

When Veronica makes no such indication, Betty stares at her blankly, and that's when her friend bites her lip and announces with a discreet blush, "and that one thing I know how to make... are pancakes."

Oh. Pancakes.

_Let me know how her pancakes turn out, whenever she decides to make them for you._

Betty fervently hopes her face isn't betraying all the thoughts rushing through her mind. 

"So I can make that for you. If you want." 

If asked, Betty can't really say why the mention of pancakes is making her heart rate skyrocket. Yes, Veronica set fire to a kitchen once while learning how to make pancakes to impress a girl she was dating. And now she's possibly going to make pancakes for Betty. 

Entirely different contexts. 

Because she's still got some semblance of control, Betty's response is cheeky, instead of panicked. "Should I get a fire extinguisher just in case?"

Veronica's roll of eyes is lovely, accompanied by an ill-suppressed smile. "Thank you, for your heartwarming words of encouragement." She begins to open cabinets and assembles pots, spoons, flour, eggs, butter, and an assortment of other cooking utensils on the center counter. "You're so lucky I'm a kind, forgiving person—who will even let you choose your preferred pancake flavor."

Deftly, Veronica lays out an assortment of fruits and flavors for her—bananas, blueberries, strawberries, chocolate, and many others Betty doesn't immediately identify. 

"You're not kidding," Betty mumbles, examining each one. "And you're sure you're not going to burn down the kitchen this time?"

"Pick your flavor, Cooper," Veronica fires back, in what was probably supposed to be a sharp, teasing response, that comes out soft and warm instead, her hand resting between them on the surface of the counter. Betty looks at the hand and swallows hard at how badly she wants to reach out and hold it.

She's spent the past 24 hours practically glued to Veronica while simultaneously stifling down all the impulses she has to create some comfortable distance between them, and now she hasn't really touched her in about twenty minutes and already it's awful. It's like she's being torn down right in the middle; a half that wants to never, ever touch Veronica again, and the half that is craving her so badly that it's almost giving her a headache.

"Banana," she chooses, noticing the slight hoarseness of her voice, then adds with a forced smile, to make it seem like her pause earlier was because she was debating her options, "and chocolate."

"Ooh, a challenge," an impressed Veronica comments, pouring ingredients into a bowl and stirring.

Despite the antagonizing mess in her own mind, the atmosphere in the kitchen is humored and light due to Veronica's obliviously cheery demeanor. In watching Veronica thoroughly concentrated on the task at hand, Betty relaxes and listens to her narrate her actions, telling her why she picked a specific size of bowl, and why the butter needed to be at room temperature, and how the pancakes in Spain are completely different, and her thoughts on achieving the perfect pancake shape (“out of the crooked timber of humanity and whatnot, you know?”), and Betty lets her guard down so completely that the question slips out before she has any chance to consider it.

"Should I tell Rome about this?"

"You mean London."

The exchange is quick, which could be an indication that Veronica's mind had also recalled the exchange with her ex-girlfriend in New York, but Veronica doesn't seem to mind the question, so Betty, now energized by the possibility of finding out more about Veronica's past dalliances, plows on. 

"Yes, her. What's her real name, by the way?" 

Some part of her is worried that this is an unpleasant subject for Veronica, but if she's reading the girl's expression correctly, there's just a lot of indifference and some annoyance. "That is her real name. Rome, Madrid, and I—Paris—gave ourselves those nicknames in solidarity, or really, to make fun of her." She turns her gaze to Betty and smiles slyly. "And no, I wouldn't tell London about these pancakes unless you'd like to be murdered."

There's a beat of silence, and the nervous energy coursing through Betty refuses to dissipate. Veronica is not at all attuned to her unsettled agitation, as she continues to stir and occasionally look at her phone, from which she's pulled a recipe.

"Um..." Why does she need to ask this? Why does she want to know? Why does it matter? Why is she— "Is she your type?" 

She blurts out the question impulsively like the words have leapt from her throat, and instantly wants to cower underneath the counter and die.

"My type?" Veronica asks absentmindedly, attention monopolized by the mixture in her hands. "Blonde?" Then, she stills, pauses, and shoots an immediate look at Betty. "Or did you mean bitchy? Or rich?" 

Betty realizes that wow, she really had not considered what exactly she was asking, since she truly has no idea what she hopes the girl will answer. 

"I don't have a type," Veronica responds, not quite as hesitant but also not as seamless as she usually is. "The other person I dated was a guy and he was diametrically opposed, in every way, to London." 

Right—Veronica is bisexual. Betty ponders inquiring further on this, but imagining her with a boy only makes her picture her with Archie, and that's a terrible image, so she moves on to the other question she's wanted to ask for the better part of yesterday. 

"How did you know?" 

"Know what?" Veronica is now adding the bananas into the stirred mix and Betty's eyes follow the movement of her hands with fascination. 

"That you're bi. Was it... did you always know?" There are better ways of phrasing this, she knows. Smarter ways. Ways that won't make her feel like an uninformed idiot. "Or did you just like a girl one day?"

Veronica adds small handfuls of chocolate chips, and seems to ponder on her reply. "I got a crush on a girl one day. And then on another one. And another one." She meets her eye and laughs. "Then I dated one, and it was really horrific, and simultaneously really great."

It's like being in a trance, listening to Veronica reveal these bits and pieces about herself. There's so much more Betty wants to find out, and it should frustrate her, at least a little bit, that Veronica is seemingly an open book that isn't quite open all the way. But what it does is intrigue her. Everything about Veronica, in fact, intrigues her. And she feels as though she could spend hours and days and years listening to Veronica talk about her past, about books, about the places she's been to, and she would always want to listen to more. Her voice is lot like a song that Betty doesn't think she'll ever get tired of hearing. 

The very picture of this moment in her life, in which she is sitting at a kitchen counter across from the coolest, smartest, most attractive person she's ever met, as she makes pancakes two hours after she kissed her—it's surreal. She knows she’s going to remember this in five years, in ten years, in twenty years. And honestly, Betty thinks as something warm and overwhelming spills inside her, she could stay in this moment forever, and be happy. She doesn't think she would need anything else. Just Veronica.

"I really hope my bananas come out okay," Veronica is murmuring, closely studying the mix's texture and consistency with a crooked smile. "This would be that moment on Chopped wherein Alex Guarnaschelli shakes her head in judgmental disapproval and a solemn Ted Allen nods in agreement." 

Betty wants to focus on something else, but the longer she watches Veronica, the harder it gets to pay attention to anything but her, and when did this start, really, that she didn't notice it until today? When did it get so hard to look away from her?

What eventually pulls Betty's attention from the girl's smile and movements is her own dress, pinching the skin of her ribcage so that Betty has to haphazardly try to adjust it. 

Veronica notices it right away. "Hey, do you want to go upstairs to my room and change? I'm almost done, and I can take these up to you when they’re ready." 

Betty agrees only because for a second there, she could almost foresee Veronica reaching out and touching her with warm concern, at which point she would most likely pass out.

“Um, yeah. I’ll go change.” 

She's been to Veronica's room many times before. Yesterday morning, in fact, she had been inside this room to drop off a backpack with her sleepover clothes and toothbrush. But yesterday morning she had still been under the impression that Veronica Lodge was just a really good-looking, curiously fascinating person. Now, she knows better. Now, she knows her heart has irreversibly wrapped itself around the girl. And now, this room has some added significance. 

Alone in the quiet of Veronica's bedroom, Betty changes quickly into a soft, old team shirt that used to belong to her dad, and a comfortable set of shorts, and then decides to look at all the details in a space to which she had never paid attention before. It's obvious from the spotless, expensive decorations—fine linens, meticulously-crafted clocks and lamps, plush rugs, and walls covered in a mix of oil paintings and bookcases—that Veronica really doesn't know how to be poor. 

There are framed pictures of her family scattered about the room, and Betty examines the closest one to her, smiling automatically when she sees a pre-teen Veronica clinging to her father, a man so glaringly, painfully handsome that he could be cast in a soap opera. Other pictures reveal Veronica in other stages of her life; a beaming infant on her mother’s lap, a toddler unsteadily pointing to the Eiffel Tower in a sunny day, a teenager lounging on a yacht against the backdrop of the bluest ocean Betty has ever seen, the now-familiar haughty grin a defining feature of a girl who clearly knows the scale of her beauty and wealth. 

And then, by her study, a more recent picture. One that makes Betty’s heart tremble a little inside her chest: Veronica and Betty, clad in their Vixen uniforms and seated across from one another at a Riverdale High lunch table, sharing fries and exchanging grins; a candid Kevin had snapped, after which he had announced that their engagement picture was ready.

"I erroneously presumed you brought your Archie shirt," she hears Veronica comment lightly, and she turns around to see the girl standing at the doorway, plates in hand. 

"My Archie shirt?"

Veronica's room is so large that it literally has a dining table for 4 people placed by the room's other doorway. And that's where Veronica heads while she replies easily, "you know, the one with your faces on it from some summer camp you went to. The one you usually sleep in." 

Oh. Yes. That shirt. 

The fact is, Betty has about a hundred photos, objects, and articles of clothing featuring Archie's face, largely gathered when her crush was most intense and their friendship had been so firmly solidified that it didn't seem unusual for them to get a mug printed with a picture of Archie carrying her on his shoulders. She barely notices these objects now—hasn't really noticed these things in a long time, as if her eyes are selectively glazing over them—especially after Polly disappeared and Veronica landed in Riverdale. It had taken a joking comment from Kevin for her to even remember that her locker is covered with pictures of her and Archie, and only about 2 of Kevin and Veronica. 

"No, I didn't bring it," Betty replies simply, not really sure of what else she can say. Archie, along with the rest of the world, seems a million miles removed from this location. 

They sit around the table and Betty takes a second to look at what is probably the best-looking pancake stack she's ever seen, which she should have expected; Veronica would never learn how to do anything in any way besides the best possible.

“You know,” Veronica starts with a smile, holding up a carefully-carved piece of pancake on her fork, “I think what you and Archie have is… enviable. This notion of an enduring childhood love…” After a short pause during which she chews thoughtfully, Veronica adds, “the people I grew up with were not worth my feelings. And I wasn’t worth theirs.”

Betty responds so instantly that it’s much like a knee-jerk reaction. “You're worth feelings. I mean, you're worth liking.” 

Veronica laughs with amused incredulity while Betty eats distracted forkfuls of her pancakes. “You're my best friend. You have to say that.” Betty is about to mumble a protest—she shouldn’t have taken such huge bites, and these pancakes aren’t big to begin with—but Veronica doesn’t let her. “Well, you don’t have to say that, but you say it anyway. You’re a much better person than anyone I’ve ever met.”

That’s solidly not true. She’s not any better than anyone Veronica has met—besides maybe Cheryl, who’s an awful person by all measures and god, Betty is just never, ever going to like her—but Veronica is blind to that, obviously. It’s kind of amazing, really, that she can find out so much about Betty and still maintain such a rosy opinion of her.

After a few seconds of inner debate, of turning the words over in her mind a couple of times, Betty states, as firmly as she's ever been, “I don’t like Archie.” It’s been true for a while now, but she’s never actually said it out loud, for the world to hear. For Veronica to hear. And for herself. “I mean, not anymore. The way I did before.”

Veronica raises her eyebrows in obvious surprise. "Really? You never told me."

"It's... recent." No, the change in Archie-related feelings is not recent. Her heart and mind re-shaping themselves in accordance with what she feels for Veronica is recent, though, and that's the question she's actually answering. 

Their phones brighten simultaneously and they read a text from Kevin commenting that apparently the entire Mantle residence was evacuated before Sheriff Keller and his deputies reached it, an effort spearheaded by Cheryl Blossom, of course; clear proof that teenage communication and coordination skills are still vastly underestimated by adults.

"I'm done," Veronica announces, that hint of fatigue coloring her tone again. They've had an incontestably long day—after getting back from New York and returning to their respective homes, all they really had time to do was shower and get ready for Reggie's party. "Do you want to sleep on the spare bed in my room or in the room next door?" 

The immediacy with which Betty wants to reply 'please for the love of God give me the room next door' rushes over her quickly, but she forces herself to wait a second before answering in calculated calm, "the other room is fine."

"Okay, let me take these plates downstairs and meanwhile you can perform all your pre-slumber rituals," Veronica instructs with an easy smile.

Betty's "ritual" consists of brushing her teeth and washing her face, so she's done by the time Veronica returns. When the girl asks her to wait while she performs her own ritual, Betty finds that Veronica is much less fussier than she had imagined—she also only washes her face and brushes her teeth.

The spare room was apparently furnished to accommodate royalty, judging by the even more elaborate decorations, and the sight of it prompts Betty to let out a low whistle. "Wow. You Lodges don't mess around with your guest bedrooms," Betty comments dryly. "I'm guessing that’s from a book no one’s ever read, and was a personal touch of yours?" Betty asks with a small smile, pointing vaguely to an inscription on the bed frame.

“‘What hath night to do with sleep?’ It’s Milton… and yes, that was all me,” Veronica laughs, the clear, warm sound filling the space between them. "Let's go get your things in my room."

Once in Veronica's room, Betty grabs her cellphone and charger and then waits as Veronica changes inside her bathroom. When she emerges, Betty plans to say good night, and leave. But the sight of Veronica in the exact sort of sleepwear that anyone would expect her to wear—silk, in a deep jewel color, terribly expensive and accompanied by the ever-present pearls—it’s still new and kind of fascinating, and it roots her to her spot.

"Do you ever get any irrational fears?" Veronica asks conversationally, sitting at the corner of her bed. "Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll emerge from sleep one morning and find that I'm back to New York, and am still a terrible person with awful character."

Betty's first instinct is to rebuke the girl's statement on the terribleness of her character. The second is to consider the question, and answer it honestly.

She's not sure whether there's a way to explain to Veronica without all the necessary words, that she’s only liked one person, and he decidedly did not like her back, and that it terrifies her sometimes that someone who got to know so much of her found that he didn't want her, and that this will always happen to her. Someone like Veronica could never know what this is like; not really, even if she tried to, and Betty doesn’t know how to express that without looking like she’s wallowing in self-pity. Which she’s not. Eventually, someone will like her; she knows that. Just not… the person she wants right now.

"Um... I guess sometimes I get afraid that no one I ever like will like me back." That's the simplest way, she thinks, of phrasing her thoughts. 

Veronica's eyebrows instantly furrow together, in the fiercest facial expression of disagreement that Betty has ever seen.

"That really is an irrational fear. Archie is an isolated incident; a true abnormality, a statistical miracle.” 

Veronica studies her for a moment and seems to relax a bit from her initial stiffened protest. Her hands absent-mindedly fluff a pillow. “You’re smart, funny, in addition to being a total babe.” The casual, effortless words sweep over Betty like an ocean current, washing onto a beach. “And you’re kind; kinder to people than they deserve—exhibit Cheryl,” she adds with a humored scoff. Betty’s heartbeats begin to slow as she watches Veronica, like they are being reduced to languid tremors inside her chest. She tries to swallow down an increasingly restricting lump in her throat, but it doesn’t disappear. "You're not perfect, of course; no one is. But you come very close," Veronica adds, this time with a beam.

It's not that Betty doesn’t receive a lot of compliments—she's moderately well-accomplished as a student and young woman—it’s the fact that this is Veronica Lodge, the most beautiful girl Betty has ever laid eyes on, and that she’s so matter-of-fact about how she says all this, like these are undeniable facts, like the entire world sees Betty like _she_ sees her. 

And that's how it starts again. The pull, the attraction, the helplessness she felt in the closet at the Mantle’s, and then again in the Pembrooke's kitchen.

Veronica slides back closer to the center of the bed, stretching her legs in front of her in a luxurious motion, but turns her head to the side to meet Betty’s eyes. Her tired grin burns happily and Betty feels as though she’s staring at the sun, the brightness devouring her. “I assure you, dating you would be like winning the girlfriend lottery." Veronica’s easy words are seeping into her bones, and she’s losing it; she’s really losing it. "In conclusion, Archie was a negligible blip in the long span of your lifetime. You can actually have anyone you want.” 

It's like her limbs revolt against her tightened hold; she finds herself taking three short steps to close the distance between them, while Veronica doesn't seem to notice anything unusual until Betty actually sits down on the bed and slides further into it so that she's kneeling onto it, facing Veronica.

She registers, faintly, that the mattress is soft, that this particular corner of the room smells strongly like Veronica—fruity, flowery, sweet—and that Veronica is watching her with a frown.

Her mind is made up before she even gets a chance to second-guess herself. Indeed, it might have been made up an hour ago, when Veronica was flipping banana pancakes and telling her about different types of flour. It might have been made up two hours ago, when Veronica kissed her. Or maybe a day ago, when Veronica held her hand and led her through her hometown. 

Or maybe it was made up when Veronica set foot inside Pop's and smiled at Betty like they were going to know each other forever.

Her mind is made up. And when she accepts it, accepts what she feels and what she's going to do, it’s the first time the scattered pieces of the universe seem to come together; her heart, body, and mind, all in agreement.

She's going to kiss Veronica. Not because they're trying to impress observers in a cheer squad tryout, and not because a bottle is pointing to one of them. Betty is going to kiss Veronica because she wants to, because she has wanted to in every second of the past 24 hours.

Slowly, she leans forward and onto her knees, and presses her lips against Veronica's. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible gasp of surprise, and the question of whether the girl actually wanted to be kissed sprouts nervously in Betty's thoughts. The impulse to back away surges, but dies immediately when she feels a warm, gentle hand on her neck. And when Veronica actually fits her lips into hers perfectly and kisses her back, Betty's heart soars.

She thought she knew well what kissing Veronica felt like, judging from the previous two times it occurred. But she finds that she didn't actually know. There is more, so much more, to kissing Veronica.

There is Veronica tilting her head to deepen the kiss, there's her tongue licking inside Betty's mouth, there's her teeth giving the gentlest, softest bites to Betty's lip. There's her hands, pulling Betty closer, and Betty feeling like she's drowning into her senses, being swallowed into the sound of Veronica's breathing, into the gallop of her own heartbeats, into the feeling of covering Veronica's body with her own and registering that the lengths of their bodies are touching. 

Every time she thinks, this is the best kiss I'm ever going to have in my life, Veronica's lips brush against hers in a different way, her hands touch her in a different place, and Betty reassesses; no, _this_ is actually the best kiss I'm ever going to have in my life. Until Veronica kisses her in a different way, and it starts again.

Veronica shifts under her, adjusts her body so that their legs fit between each other, and when Betty briefly breaks the kiss to take a shallow breath, she feels lips kiss the feverish skin of her neck, and it's like the contact is a spark that burns her entire body. Then her lips are back to sucking on Betty's and Betty knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that she's addicted. She will never be able to stop kissing Veronica now that she knows what it's like, what kissing her can feel like—there is no way she can stop.

So she doesn't. Betty continues to kiss Veronica even when she's been robbed of steady breathing, even when Veronica entangles her hands into Betty's hair, even when Veronica's lips travel down to her neck again and Betty's entire posture falters. Her arms are at Veronica's sides, and in some hazy, foggy part of her brain, she decides to lower one of her hands to the space on the bed right beside her hip in order to raise her body momentarily off of Veronica's until she can steady herself. Instead, her hand finds Veronica's hip; more precisely, a hipbone left bare by a shirt and pair of shorts that have shifted out of place.

She's seen portions of Veronica's body over time; bathing suits and locker rooms made that inevitable. In every occasion Veronica's barer-than-usual body has made an appearance, Betty had taken a moment to admire the lithe frame, the athletic shapes coexisting with the softer lines, and ponder on her friend's easy attractiveness. But this—actually touching Veronica in any part of her besides the hands or arms—is new. And when the realization sinks in that this is what she's doing, Betty feels instantly light-headed. 

But Veronica pulls her even closer and kisses her even more deeply, and Betty is lost in the heady, nervous thrill of this new sensation, and her hand slides up onto her waist, almost as an automatic response. This is when she registers that this isn't only affecting Betty—Veronica's breathing is decidedly more uneven than before, and she feels, for the first time, the heat emanating from her body. Betty's hand reaches Veronica's ribs and she's certain that she's going to faint. She's absolutely sure, there's no doubt about it—

All semblance of thought in her mind evaporates the moment Veronica bites her lip again, a little harder, a little longer. And then Betty's hand is on Veronica's chest. Her heart stops and the world is pulled from underneath the bed when Betty actually hears a small, soft moan. 

Immediately, she breaks the kiss; she attempts to regain her breath while her eyes lock onto Veronica's, and the former is supremely unsuccessful. The moment she takes in Veronica's flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and eyes so dark they remind her of the nighttime sky above them, all the air in the room abruptly disappears.

Is this all right, she begins, but no sound actually comes out of her mouth. 

"Is all this okay with you?" Veronica asks, voice an incredibly attractive mix of hoarse and soft. 

"Yeah," Betty manages to breathe out while intensely, mind-numbingly aware that her hand is still on Veronica's breast, palming a raised nipple. "I..." She doesn't know how to say it. She doesn't even know what she wants to say. She just knows that she wants to look at Veronica like this forever, and she wants to kiss her until time ceases to exist, and she really, really wants to touch her everywhere, to hear that little moan again.

"It's okay with me too," she murmurs softly, leaning up to kiss Betty again. Betty's hand moves on its own accord, exploring Veronica's breast tentatively. In between the hammer of her heartbeats in her ear and the sound of her own irregular breathing, Betty picks up the moan again and counts one more thing about Veronica that she's now addicted to.

After only a brief moment, it's Veronica who unexpectedly breaks the kiss to release a light pant, and Betty realizes her fingers have been paying special attention to her nipple. "Um, we... we're going in what appears to be a certain direction," Veronica breathes out heavily, visibly having a hard time articulating her sentence, and it's fascinating and downright the greatest thing Betty has ever witnessed; "and I want to go in that direction, but I'm not sure if you do."

Betty pulls back a bit, intending to give her a reply composed of more than just "yes, please, I want to go in that direction," but when she does raise herself off Veronica by a few inches, she looks down and is caught by the sight of her hand on Veronica's breast, a hand which had unknowingly pushed up the shirt almost to the girl's collarbone to expose her entire torso.

She can see Veronica's chest. It's the first bare chest she's ever seen on a girl who isn't herself. And it's glorious. So glorious that Betty leans down and kisses it.

"Oh my God," Veronica groans. Three—another thing she's going to be addicted to.

Truth be told, Betty is more or less terrified that she has no idea what she's doing. In every one of her actions, she overcomes the doubt in the back of her mind that Veronica won't like anything she's doing, that her inexperience will show. But through nervous touches and kisses, she's learning what Veronica's body likes, and every encouraging moan or shiver or hiccup in her breath guides her. It guides her to push Veronica's shirt out of the way to continue kissing her chest, it guides her to kiss her neck, it guides her to kiss her jaw. And it guides her to reach for Veronica's shorts.

She hears a low, labored breath, just before Betty's lips reach Veronica's mouth. Veronica pulls her into the deepest, wettest, most thorough kiss Betty could have ever conceived, and like an automatic response from her body, her hand slips inside Veronica's underwear.

Veronica exhales shakily but Betty can't think about anything except the fact that—"I don't know what to do," she blurts out in slight panic.

"You don't have to know," Veronica says, pursing her lips and momentarily closing her eyes when Betty tries to adjust her positioning and ends up accidentally applying pressure with her hand. "Um..." It sends a wave of thrill through Betty, watching Veronica actually struggling to control her breathing and maintain her eyes open and focused on her. "You can just... do what you just did. I really won’t need more than that."

Betty moves her hand a bit, shifts an angle, finds that she could actually slip _inside_ Veronica if she wanted to. 

And she wants to, if Veronica wants her to.

With another heated kiss and a minute raise of her hips, Veronica signals her approval. And when Betty finally does it, she's overwhelmed by the thought that she is inside Veronica, that with each movement, she can feel Veronica around her fingers, and she sees it, all the signs that she's doing this right—Veronica's small gasp, her eyes fluttering shut and then opening to reveal pupils so dilated that Betty can't help leaning down to kiss her again.

She only stops kissing her when Veronica's breathing becomes a ragged, labored sound, and by then, when Betty pulls back, she catches sight of something much greater, something that stills her lungs, squeezes her heart, and imprints itself into her mind—Veronica, unraveling underneath her with a soft, gasping moan.

Betty's eyes widen involuntarily, as she allows herself to process in slack-jawed awe that she did this. She actually did this, with her own hand, without having any idea what the hell she was doing, she made Veronica—

Then, Veronica is kissing her again, hard and breathless and hot, effectively dissolving Betty's brain. 

"If you don't like something I'm doing at any moment, tell me, okay?" she requests softly, kissing the corner of Betty's mouth after flipping her into her back and straddling her. 

Veronica immediately removes her shirt and Betty realizes that she completely missed the part where she removed her own underwear also, because the girl on top of her now is completely nude save for the topmost portion of her shoulders, which are covered by the girl’s mussed black hair. Betty’s already widened eyes widen further, because Jesus Christ. This girl's body... it's...

In its best state, Betty's brain probably could not come up with an appropriate word to describe what she's seeing. In this present state, far from competent coherence, it's a hopeless endeavor, and all Betty finds herself able to do is stare. 

When Veronica actually touches her—to trace a heated line from her hip to her ribs—it occurs to Betty that Veronica had allowed her uninterrupted, unlimited access to her body, without really touching Betty in any place below the shoulders. And now, her hands are actually wandering while she's kissing her and this is the greatest sensation in the entire world—

No. As soon as Veronica's mouth begins to follow the wandering path of her hands, Betty realizes that she spoke too soon. This is the greatest sensation in the entire world.

Her body temperature climbs in exponential degrees with each place Veronica's hands and mouth brush, and by the time they reach her chest, Betty hears a strangled "oh my God" and then realizes the words came from her.

This is about the time that Betty notices, with growing discomfort, that there's a place in her body that she really, really would like Veronica to go next. Every part of her is terribly, hopelessly addicted to her already, and her breasts are particularly enjoying her tongue, but when Veronica licks a stripe from her collarbone to her neck, Betty starts panting a bit, because really—there's one particular place that feels like it just really needs—

"Can I take this off?" Veronica asks, sliding a finger under the waistband of her shorts.

" _Yes, please,_ " Betty replies, firmly and much, much too quickly, which actually causes Veronica to let out a small laugh. Before Betty can sink into the mattress and disappear from embarrassment, her attention is split in different directions; to the brush of Veronica's lips against a specially sensitive spot on her neck, and to the feeling of being gently stripped of her shorts and underwear.

Once they're off her body, she only has a millisecond to be self-conscious. Because then, in the following millisecond, all thought in any still-functioning part of her brain evaporates as she feels mouth and a tongue setting a slow-rhythm fire to the entire world. She feels her limbs floating away from her, the rest of her body melting into the bed. She feels fingers slide inside her and curve to hit one particular spot that makes the entirety of her body throb. 

And then she feels more. Much, much more. An explosion behind her eyelids and something immense, hot and liquid, washing over her insides and coursing through her bloodstream.

It's a minute, or five minutes, or ten—Veronica is pressing her lips softly against her neck, and Betty is all impulse and feeling and buzzing nerve endings, angling her head to kiss the girl again like she wants to pull the air from her lungs, because she didn't even know the human body could feel like this, didn't know a mouth could make the world ache and pulse with a heartbeat, and now she gets it, what it's like to want to consume someone.

She withdraws to catch some of her breath and lick her swollen lips, and meets Veronica's eyes, the brightest stars in the universe. "What you did... can I do that to you?"

A brilliant, happy grin bursts into her features, twisting Betty's heart as it shakes inside her. It's almost too much, how badly she wants Veronica to be hers; her heart is going to fly out of her body. "You can do anything you want."

So she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it to the end, then hopefully you know now why 1) this fic is rated M 2) why it took a month to write this chapter ._.
> 
> You might also have noticed that this isn't the last chapter, so some significant events are still to come. I'm shit at writing angst (and any remotely sensual scenes, and yet here we are) but I do like some minor character-building conflict, so that's the preview for what awaits you :)
> 
> A million thanks to all those who have taken the time to leave a comment, an encouragement, a helpful note, and the really long, detailed responses that really make me melt. I hope you all find someone who looks at you like Veronica looks at Betty, or like Cheryl looks at anything related to Jason.


	6. Monday, Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author attempts to stick to the story's "mostly canon compliant" tag.

Everything in life comes in threes, is what Grandma Cooper would often say when Betty and Polly were growing up. It’s what Betty thinks of, all through Sunday and Monday. That everything, good or bad, comes in threes. 

\- 

**ONE**

Betty sits up on the bed with a start, sunlight warming her panicked body. It’s Sunday morning. 

Oh my God it’s MORNING. 

HER PARENTS ARE BACK. 

Oh my God oh my God oh my God— _crap crap crap crap_ — 

Through her horror, her eyes dart to Veronica, and then to the ornate antique clock on the wall, and while she can’t help melting into a puddle of happiness at the sight of the sleeping girl beside her, she instantly stiffens with renewed terror when she realizes that it’s just past 7:45am. Her parents advised they would be home at 8. Her mind performs a mad dash of desperate calculations; she has about 10 minutes to make it to her house, which is 6 blocks from The Pembrooke, which is just under 2 miles, and she can run a mile in 9 minutes, maybe 8.5 minutes if she really pushes it, which means she can make it there in 15 minutes if she leaves in this exact moment, but she’s not even dressed yet, but she can get dressed in about a minute, and she can grab her things later, but SHIT now she only has 9 minutes— 

Veronica stirs beside her, stomach down on the luxurious mattress, a bare shoulder poking out from under their plush, white covers. An overwhelmed Betty stares at her in awe, eyes sweeping and committing to memory each inch of exposed skin—skin upon which she trailed her hands and her lips, skin that is warm and soft and so inviting—and her heart flutters almost painfully with how thoroughly it’s been immersed in this feeling that she just really _needs_ this girl. It’s like her lungs won’t refill themselves unless she’s close to her, like Veronica is the one setting the strength and rhythm of her heartbeats. 

She slept tangled in her limbs, dreamt of her, and has woken up thinking about her. It’s impossible to stop; it’s never going to stop, and she doesn’t want it to. She didn’t know she had been waiting to feel like this until now, when she’s finally feeling it. And there is so much of this inside her that it fills her up, coats her heart, warms her stomach, and spills over through every limb.

7:48am. 

Her parents. 

_Shit._

Instantly, she slips out from underneath the covers as quietly as she can, sighing with relief when her efforts are successful, and she manages to do it without disturbing Veronica. She haphazardly gets dressed; bra, underwear, and the clothes she would have slept in, had Veronica not taken them off: her dad’s shirt and a comfortable pair of shorts. She had also brought a pair of sandals, and wonders how well she can run in them until she realizes the alternative are the pair of heels she wore with her party dress. Clearly, her choices are very limited.

Surreptitiously, she grabs her phone from Veronica’s nightstand and then lingers by the bed, her eyes tracing the outlines of her face as she takes in the girl’s steady breathing for just a few moments more, and enjoys the ghost sensation of her touch warming the expanse of her body. 

She runs as soundlessly as she can to the girl’s study and quickly scribbles a note to Veronica on a Shakespeare-themed (of course) notepad she finds. Right underneath ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting’ (under which Veronica has already written ‘every wise man’s son doth know’) she scrawls, _“call me when you wake up. -B.”_ Then, she turns to the bed on the opposite end of the room, upon which sleeps the girl who’s set her soul on fire. 

Betty can’t say she’s ever felt a stronger pull than the one tempting her to slide back under the covers with Veronica. It’s so potent, so immense, that she sways on the spot, having to forcefully remind herself that she has to go. That her parents will arrive at their residence and won’t find her there otherwise. That Veronica will text her when she wakes up. That they will see each other later today. That she’s going to get to kiss her again and Veronica will bury her head in the crook of her neck like she did before, and will whisper things in her ear and tangle her hands in her hair, and everything will be great again. 

Okay. Leave. 

She dashes down the elaborate staircase, and then almost falls over in surprise when she narrowly avoids crashing into Smithers in the foyer. The man is tall, unwaveringly composed and proper.

Betty gawks at the man, painfully aware of how this all looks, of how she looks—disheveled, carelessly dressed, blushing with boundless awkwardness, and smelling like Veronica.

“Good morning, Miss Cooper.”

Crap. The man knows. Betty is certain—he knows that she spent the night engaged in less-than-innocent actions with Veronica, and if she could dig a hole into the marbled floor and bury herself, she would. 

“Hi… Smithers. Good morning,” she greets haltingly. The pressure of time, ticking by so relentlessly, pushes her to conclude this conversation even more than her embarrassment does. “Is Mrs. Lodge here?”

“She has not yet arrived, no. Her shift is just about wrapping up now.”

“When she does… could you not, um, mention… that I slept here?” It sounds like she’s swearing him to secrecy against his own employer and friend, which is terrible, but that’s exactly what she’s doing, for Veronica’s sake. Because Hermione Lodge would not immediately think that Betty sleeping over entailed anything inappropriate, but Betty has no idea how open Veronica is with her mother, doesn’t know what kinds of things they talk about. “Veronica will—maybe, I’m not sure, but probably, I think?—tell her.”

“It is not for me to tell, Miss Cooper.”

“Right. Thank you.” With a parting smile, she takes off on a desperate sprint to her house. She now has exactly 8 minutes.

The streets are pleasantly vacant, which means she dashes across empty intersections and streets uninterruptedly, mind turbulent with the task at hand, but also with scattered thoughts of Veronica, of Veronica's laugh, or her hands and her mouth, of what they've done, of how she feels now, and how much she wishes she could talk about this with Polly, the person who had, up until this summer, been the primary witness and supporter in every single important event in Betty's life.

She rounds off a street sign and makes it to her house, breathless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, at just past 8:10am.

Once she reaches the porch, she wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, then reins back her lungs’ need for gulps of air so she can stealthily lean close to the doorway. There is no car in the driveway but she decides not to rely solely on that to determine whether her parents are home or not. Hearing nothing but an encouraging silence from inside, she’s prompted by a triumphant burst of energy to immediately enter her house, lock the door behind her, and race to take a shower. Within a short few minutes, she steps out wrapped in her towel and gingerly makes her way to the stairwell, from where she hears muffled voices and movement downstairs. She’s well aware that her mother has already verified her presence, and that this is the only reason her phone isn’t overwhelmed by missed calls and that her dad is already making them breakfast, and she’s once again thankful to have narrowly made it back.

She’s grinning, imagining Veronica’s reaction to her stroke of luck, and is turning towards her bedroom when abruptly, her attention is jerked by faint words she overhears from the kitchen.

"...Polly... month, not last month... purse... deposit slip for that..."

Polly. And a deposit. And her mother's purse. The puzzle pieces clash together in her mind, and she hurries to her room and locks the door behind her.

A deposit slip. What do deposit slips have? Names? Bank information? Account numbers?

_That's how you can track most things; by tracking the money._

Her fingers immediately type a rushed text to Jughead.

**BCoop: Jug, do you know how to track a bank account number? Like to see who it belongs to?**

_Jugthe3rd: Is this a formal invitation for an afternoon of sleuthing?_

Betty hesitates. She wants to be with Veronica so badly it's sending an ache through her chest, but if she never chases this lead, she might never find Polly. And she has to find Polly—she has to.

**BCoop: Let's sleuth.**

Jughead is knocking on her window barely 2 minutes later and that, combined with the fact that he's wearing the same clothes he wore to Reggie's party last night, is what reminds her that he and Kevin slept over at Archie's, the neighboring house.

"Did you make it back in time before your parents came back from their trip?" Jughead inquires, sitting down by her study.

"Barely," she replies with a shudder. "I overslept and almost got caught."

"Did Veronica keep you up or what?"

Okay. This is not where the conversation should be going. Betty is not confident that she’s a particularly good liar.

"Um. No, we slept... at a reasonable time." She does her best to sound nonchalant, then decides to casually change the subject. "So, about my parents; I think they weren't in just any trip. I think they might have visited Polly." The boy's curiosity is immediately piqued, and Betty continues, encouraged. "I need to get to my mom's purse. My dad said something about a deposit slip being in there and it has to do with Polly. It's a clue, I know it is."

"What are you trying to find?"

She sits down on a corner of her bed, now impatient with the need to make this boy understand why this is so important. "Jug, they're making some kind of payment somewhere, and that's how you track things, through money; where it comes from and where it goes." She knows immediately that she's not making any sense, isn't making things any clearer, but her mind is consumed by this. "That's what Veronica said and she's always right." This garners a smirk from Jughead, which she readily ignores. Every other thought generated in her mind begins and ends with Veronica, but the urgency of finding Polly fuels her on. "I have to know where that money is going. And I think that deposit slip is where I can find that."

Finally, the boy seems to grasp her point, and simultaneously, she has an idea. "Jug, help me distract my mom. Come to breakfast. Then... we'll find a way of getting her away from her purse. And then I'll get a picture of the deposit slip." It's risky. But it has to work. It has to. 

"Betty, are you sure—"

He touches her wrist, obviously a simple attempt to reinforce his question, but Betty’s mind flashes with the recent memory of Veronica kissing her in that same spot, and she immediately pulls her arm back, disguising her sudden motion by grabbing his hand instead, pulling him to his feet with a determined, "yes, I'm sure! Climb the window back down, give me 5 minutes, and I'll text you. Then ring the bell, okay?”

Her pessimism screams inside her mind that this plan won’t work, but against all reason, it does. Her father leaves to run an errand, Jughead joins Betty and her mom for breakfast, Jughead distracts her mom, and Betty snaps a picture of the deposit slip inside her mom’s purse. It actually works. And Betty’s first thought after Jughead leaves and she climbs the stairs back to her room to allow him in through the window once again, is that she really wishes Veronica was with her.

As Jughead is immersed in an attempt to hack some database to track the bank account written on the slip, Betty checks her phone. It’s 9:30am, and Veronica hasn’t contacted her yet. She’s not expecting it this early, honestly—the girl doesn’t get up before noon unless it’s a school day. Without any prompting, her mind recalls the last she saw of Veronica; comfortably enveloped by soft white covers, a body whose warmth and taste she knows so well now. And it strikes her again, how badly she wishes she could be with her again, how amazing it would feel to open the door to Veronica’s room, sink into the bed, and kiss her cheek, her forehead, her jaw, her neck—

“Found it.” Jughead gives her a wide, satisfied smile as he turns from her laptop. “The Sisters of Quiet Mercy. Is that where we’re going?”

Betty blinks any last trace of indecision away, because this is it. With the passing of all these months, Polly’s absence had begun to feel like a constant, endless, painful weight inside her chest, but now she actually knows where she is. “Yes. That’s where we’re going.”

-

_"I'm going to like, black out or something, if you..." It's the combination of Veronica's tongue and Veronica's fingers and Veronica's everything else—it's almost too much; Betty feels as though her muscles and bones are palpitating in sync with her heartbeats—Veronica sucks a little harder, and Betty squeezes her eyes shut, feels the blood in her veins mix with fire, thinks she's standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into a chasm as dark as Veronica's eyes, and then Veronica adds another finger and..._

"Betty?"

Betty jerks up in her seat as though Jughead’s voice had physically yanked her back to consciousness, her face flushed with embarrassment and alarm. The bus is braking and Jughead is intently studying the scenery outside their window.

“You awake? We’re here.” 

Good Lord. These memories surfacing in all her dreams hadn’t seemed like a big deal before, but now… “Yes, I’m fine. I just had a… dream.”

Once inside the "home for troubled youths," requesting to visit Polly is not a process as arduous as she had expected. Indeed, after signing in and being informed that Polly is taking a stroll through the "meditation garden," the only inconvenience is having to surrender her phone to a nun working behind the welcoming desk.

Betty makes an attempt to keep her phone with her—half to be able to communicate with Jughead, who's going to stand guard and alert her to any other Coopers' intrusion, and half to be able to talk to Veronica. It's 11am, the time she would be getting up. But reluctantly, she hands over her phone and exchanges a wary look with Jughead. Then, she is pointed in the direction of the garden.

As she follows a pebbled path towards the center section, she can't help but remember laughing with mirth and amusement when a grinning Veronica, propped on her elbow by Betty's side, attempted to jokingly use literary-inspired pick-up lines "in case it works on you," while her hand slowly descended to the inside of her thigh. And as the traveling hand became fingers tracing rapidly-warming skin, and the fingers then disappeared inside of her, snatching the regularity of her breath, there was a murmur in her ear, echoing in her head even when her heartbeats were threatening to drown them out; "more flowers I noted, yet I none could see, but sweet, or color it had stolen from thee."

That's the kind of girl she's entwined her soul with—one who compares her to flowers, like the ones surrounding her at this moment. If Veronica were standing in front of her now, Betty would be half-heartedly chastising her; it's your fault that everything makes me think of you.

It's a mere second after recalling Veronica's words that Betty catches sight of a flash of instantly-recognizable blond hair. 

Four months. One hundred and twenty days. And finally, she’s found Polly.

“Betty! You’re here!”

Their embrace is tight, secure, and simultaneously calming. She lets it wash over her like balm over her wounds, hearing her sister’s voice again in a gleeful squeal, the person who’s witnessed every moment of her life and helped her grow up into the person she is. She takes in the changes in her sister's physique, and it's a surprise, yes, but finally, finally she found her, and the missing piece of her life that made her feel so hollow at times is now firmly placed back inside her.

There is so much she wants to tell her, there’s so much she wants to know; her voice rushes out without preparing her lungs for it—she’s breathless when she finally lets Polly go and says with wonder, “you’re pregnant. That’s why you’re here—you're not sick; you’re pregnant.”

Polly smiles widely, with boundless happiness. “Betty, I knew it—whenever mom and dad would tell me you didn’t want to see me, I knew they were lying. I knew you were looking for me. And that you’d find me.” They embrace again, and it’s almost enough to erase the months in which their bond was severed. “How is Jason? Does he know I'm here? Did you tell him you found me?”

Jason?

Just like that, a second after catching sight of Polly’s look of naïve hope, Betty feels her sister’s words crush her, and a cold stream of realization rushes through her, hardening her body. Her parents never told Polly. Jason is _dead_ and Polly doesn’t know. And in her terror, in her heart-stilling fear of hurting her sister, Betty is ill-prepared to tell her.

“Jason?” she asks faintly, with a fast-disappearing hope that she’s misheard everything; that Polly does know about his death; that this is just a misunderstanding. Instead, Polly’s eyes dart about, in search of a boy who isn’t here. Who will never _be_ , ever again. Betty sits down on a nearby bench, wanting to bury her face in her hands and disappear.

“Is he with you?”

Betty wills herself to spring back into action, to say what she needs to say in the way she needs to say it, but ultimately, she blurts out the answer to an altogether different question.

“No, just Jughead.”

Polly was pacing, in slow, deliberate steps, but at this, she pauses and raises an eyebrow, and Betty recalls, much too late, that prior to this year, she was never as close to Jughead as she was to Archie. This is definitely something Polly is going to ask about.

And she’s right. “Jughead? Something I should know?” She smiles with teasing suggestiveness, and Betty feels her face being set aflame by panic, her mind performing a rapid pivot from worrying about revealing the truth about Jason, to revealing the truth about Veronica. Irrationally, she wonders whether her sister will be able to tell upon closer examination, that the girl in front of her is not at all the girl she last saw four months ago.

The Betty from four months ago hadn’t met Veronica, hadn’t gotten to know her, hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t been inside her. The Betty now is fundamentally different from the Betty back then.

And now there are walls closing in around her, of two subjects she was never prepared to discuss and had hoped to avoid.

“Or are you still on the Archie train?” Polly amends with a wink, probably picking up on Betty’s nervous, nonverbal denial.

“No, I don’t like either of them.” Every muscle in her body seems to be on alert, as though she’s somehow subconsciously braced herself to run away from her sister, from this conversation. “I like someone else,” she says with a feverish hope that Polly won't press the issue.

If anything, all this does is add fuel to Polly’s interest. “Who's the lucky guy?”

Betty almost winces, reflexively. There is no guy. There is a girl. She’s going to have to actively lie to her sister. “The lucky guy? Um... he is... not someone you know.” There. What other questions could Polly possibly have?

“When did this start? During the summer, while I was gone, right?”

Plenty of other questions, apparently. Polly doesn’t look any closer to dropping the subject. The walls close in tighter, and Betty feels herself begin to subtly perspire.

She clears her throat before replying, “it's new. We just kind of started.”

With an elated nod, Polly joins her on the bench and envelops her hands inside hers, and all it does is deepen Betty’s sense of betrayal, that this is the person she’s lying to—the one who would not be disappointed by the truth. Polly's concerned, understanding gaze burrow into her, and Betty knows that there's nowhere to run. “Is he treating you right? Is he good to you?”

 _He._ It’s a he. The source of her happiness, the person her heart is devoted to, the girl who peppered kisses all throughout her face, murmuring that “I think the Bard would have written another 154 sonnets about you”—she has to refer to as a he. Because she's a coward and hasn't had enough time, enough preparation, enough gathered courage, to tell her sister this.

Her mind attaches itself to one circular set of instructions: pretend it’s a he, you can do it, just do it. “He's the best. The best person I could have been with.”

Polly is immensely excited, genuinely deriving joy from Betty’s reluctant reveal of her burgeoning relationship. “Tell me more about him.”

Veronica Lodge.

_Betty and I come as a matching set._

Betty feels the ghost of Veronica's touch upon her skin. She sees her bright, sanguine smile and can almost taste her kiss again. Veronica Lodge, the girl who doesn't follow the rules, because she makes them; and when necessary, she breaks them.

Veronica is... she is...

Her thoughts were racing, she was breathless, and her body was tightened in preparation for escape. But now, it’s like Betty’s agitation is gradually stilling as her answer seems to flow, smoothly and uninterruptedly, directly from the innermost part of her heart, where she's kept all the feelings she has for Veronica. “He's... not from around here. It makes him different, in a good way. He's the smartest person I know. The wittiest; thinks in poetry and classic literature. Nice to everyone, but is always kind of insecure, thinking it's not enough.” Veronica is the best person in the world. The best. “I feel like we got close really suddenly, like we met and it was just kind of meant to be, you know.” And Betty is so lucky, that of everyone Veronica could have chosen, she picked her. “We do things together and talk all day, about everything, and I've never shared so much of myself, but I'm not afraid of being judged. I know I won't be judged, because I'm not expected to be perfect. I just need to be the way I already am." Veronica smiled at her and kissed her and whispered against her neck that she was the most perfect-looking human being she had ever seen in her life. “I didn't know I would feel so much, so fast, but I do; I can't stop feeling like this and I tried in the beginning but it didn't work, but now that I know we can be together, I don't want to stop.” Veronica is it for her, she really is. Betty doesn't want anyone else. “I want to keep feeling like this because it's like… like I don't need anything else in life. Just her.”

It’s simultaneous, their reactions. Betty blanches and stiffens with instant, overwhelming horror and Polly cocks her head to the side with a frown, as though she’s misheard her.

“Her?”

The panic spreads from Betty's face with a whoosh through the rest of her body, and every single organ and tissue is affected—her breath disappears from her lungs, her heartbeats are erratic, her body is frozen in place. The earth has been snatched from underneath her feet.

"Did you say 'her?'"

“I didn’t… I meant 'him.'” Her denial is weak. Uneven. Unsteady. Utterly unconvincing.

Polly, in turn, is staring at her in a wide-eyed mix of realization and curiosity. “No…” she murmurs softly, sliding closer to Betty and training a warm, studying gaze. “You didn’t. Who is she?” 

In contrast to Polly’s clarity, Betty is so thoroughly terrified that she almost wants to throw up. “You don't know her.”

“Are you...” Polly trails off pensively; apparently decides to start her question over. “Do you like girls?”

Through the haze of her disbelief that she’s actually confirming this, and talking about it, she answers, “I don't know if I like girls—I like her.” The admission feels heavy, as though in the act of verbalizing this, she's thrown a chunk of her heart and mind, out into the world. And she doesn’t think she’s ever felt this vulnerable. A pleading sort of desperation surges inside her, a reaction to the thought that maybe she was wrong and Polly won't accept her; maybe she'll tell their parents. “Don't... please don't say anything. I'm sorry I didn't... I didn't know I was like this. I swear."

"'Like this?'" Polly asks gently. "Gay? Bisexual?"

Betty hasn't had time to think about what she is; she's been too consumed by Veronica. "I don't know," she answers quietly and honestly. 

Immediately, Polly pulls her into a hug so crushingly tight that it knocks the air from Betty and almost suffocates her. "You don't have to know," she tells her, voice muffled but urgent, coated and filled with the kind of love Betty has always associated with Polly, has always known she could count on. She releases her and gives her a serious, meaningful look. "You can just like whoever you like. You don't have to pick a label just so people can have something to call you by."

Betty hesitates, still not entirely certain of herself. "You're okay with this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Something—some insecurity perhaps, some lingering, baseless fear—nudges her to check again. "I understand if you see me differently—"

"Why would I see you differently? You're not different." The relief is like blast of sunlight, warming her after a particularly chilly night. "We don't pick who we love, Betty. I mean, look at Jason and I. Probably not ideal, you know? If you ask him, he'll tell you the same thing. Our families are so against it, but you can't help loving who you love." At the mention of Jason, Betty reverts right back to rigid panic. "I found Jason and I'm really glad you found someone, too."

Jason. 

It's weighing down on her like shackles; it's sucking all the happiness she had been feeling after revealing the truth about herself—now there's another truth to expose and Betty strains under the effort to be brave enough.

Her conflicted emotions are apparently painted on her face, as Polly seems to catch on that something isn't completely right.

"Betty? What is it?"

Be brave. Be the person Veronica thinks you are. "It's about Jason, Polly."

Polly's instant alarm stabs Betty through the chest. "Did something happen to him? Betty, what happened to Jason?" The questions are desperate, filled with dread.

Betty opens her mouth to tell her, and is then swiftly interrupted.

"Betty! Betty!" It's Jughead, running with urgency towards her. And behind him, an approaching figure that stops her heart mid-beat.

"ELIZABETH COOPER! STOP RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT!"

-

The following hours are a pained, messy blur. Polly's grieving sobs as she finally discovers Jason's fate and is subsequently dragged back to her room; their mom's initial fury and subsequent teary, heartbroken goodbye; Betty's spirits shattered by the familial tragedy she is witnessing, and the urgent vow she calls out just as Polly disappears from her sight: I'll get you out of here, I promise.

The ensuing fight in the Cooper household is harsh and merciless, punctuated by bitter revelations and accusations, and it rips the loudest screams and the hottest tears from her.

In the end, Betty is grounded for a full week. No phone, computer, or internet. No outings of any sort besides attending school. And as she lays in bed and soaks in her resentment, she lets her spirits be lifted by the joy of having seen her sister, but wears her determination like armor—she's going to get Polly out of that place.

She remembers that she never had a chance to check her phone after surrendering it to the nun, because her mother promptly confiscated it before Betty could even chance a glance at the screen. She's thoroughly certain that Veronica did contact her, and she just wishes she had had a chance to respond.

-

**TWO**

It's Monday morning when Betty opens her locker and glances around the crowded hallway with some mild anxiety, eyes searching for Veronica, that she realizes how inconvenient not having a phone is truly going to be during the ensuing school days. Due to their differing class schedules, meeting up with Veronica in between classes has always been something they actually had to coordinate. 

As she grabs her books for home room, she mentally curses that they only have 3 classes out of 6 together—in fact, Veronica's first two periods are Trigonometry and AP English, while Betty has US History and Statistics, in entirely opposite ends of the school. That means that if Veronica is late (as usual) to school, Betty won't really get a chance to see her until third period (cheerleading) a whole 3 hours away. 

Groaning, she stacks another book on her forearm and then is startled when Kevin pops quite animatedly into her sight. 

"So! Jug told us everything—way to go, future FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Cooper, locating your long-lost sister," he congratulates with a beam, but before Betty can make some offhand comment about their team effort, her attention is snatched by the reason the boy said "us" and not "me." Right behind his tall frame emerges Veronica, blindingly attractive in a knee-length black dress, the ever-present pearls, and a bright, slightly nervous smile that grabs Betty's heart and runs away with it. Veronica has always had an arsenal of smiles at her disposal to disarm everyone, but this specific one she had never seen before. It’s one Betty has never received from anyone. It's the smile from someone who likes her, and who knows she's liked back. The earnestness of it makes Betty stare, makes her want to commit every detail of it to memory, so she can think about it whenever Veronica isn't with her.

Suddenly, there's a throb reverberating through her muscles, wanting to propel her closer to Veronica and it's so unexpectedly hard to control hands that seem very, very intent in touching her. Her gaze is locked with Veronica's, and the girl is outright grinning now but also raising an eyebrow in Kevin's direction, and that's when Betty remembers that there's a boy in front of her, still talking. 

"... and that you're incommunicable because you got grounded. No phone, no computer—what's it like to live a century ago? Was Roosevelt a good president?"

Betty gives him a chuckle but discreetly checks her watch, wondering whether time is always going to be her enemy when it comes to Veronica. They have about 10 minutes before the bell announces their first period, and she just wants a minute with Veronica; just a minute to… 

(Press her against this locker and touch her in all the places she likes and kiss her until she can’t feel her lips anymore.)

To speak to her. But Kevin is still talking.

"Hey, V; come join us." Obediently, Veronica steps forward to stand side-by-side with Kevin and Betty immediately swallows hard because good Lord, now it's really hard to keep herself from staring and to maintain her breathing and brain functioning at their usual rates. Right now, Veronica is studying her with a smirk much like she had last night, when Betty was recovering her breath and Veronica seemed to be deciding where to kiss her next. "So, Betty, has anyone asked what your ship name is with Jughead?"

If the universe were contained in a movie, Betty is certain this is the moment there would have been the loud, distinct sound of a record scratch.

"Huh?" Betty throws a puzzled look at Veronica, whose smile has morphed into pursed lips that betray some annoyance but not surprise.

"Oh, you don't know—she doesn't know," Kevin explains, turning to Veronica quickly and with enthusiasm. "Apparently someone saw Jughead climbing out of your bedroom window at 8 in the morning yesterday, dressed in the same clothes he wore to Reggie's party. Imaginations went wild, as one would presume; the gossip has carried like wildfire and the fanfictions for that must be ah-mazing," he tells with continued excitement, while Betty is still gaping, somewhat appalled by what her friend is telling her. "V, what do you think their ship name should be?"

To her dismay, Veronica clears her throat and answers smoothly, "Bughead is a great portmanteau, I would venture."

Betty nearly sputters her response; "um, Jughead slept at _Archie's_. You were there too, Kev," she protests, baffled by this conversation. "And I was with..." Her words catch on her throat, attention darting to Veronica’s own alert eyes. "I was at Veronica's."

" _We_ know that; the rest of the school doesn't," Kevin retorts with a dismissive shrug. "Anyway, I have to go taunt Jughead about Bughead—see you in History, and by the way, V, don't think you're getting away from giving me a full report on your sleepover at Thornhill."

For the second time that morning, Betty jolts in alarm. Thornhill? The Blossom residence?

As Kevin disappears, Betty turns to Veronica with bewilderment. She's forming the question in her head but Veronica is quicker. "So... how was your _Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego_ adventure with Jughead?"

Her tone is conversational but there’s an odd edge to it, as if she's not particularly interested in hearing the answer. Which isn't like Veronica, which must mean this is bothering her, and the fact that she's done something that doesn't sit well with Veronica almost distracts her from providing her answer.

"Fine; it was great to finally find Polly." She's curt, because now it's her turn to ask questions, and if Veronica was uneasy about her "adventure" with Jughead, Betty can be just as unsettled by Kevin's tidbit of information. "Did Kevin say you had sleepover at Thornhill or was that my imagination?"

"Oh, yes, the incident in which my nightmares came to haunt me in real life," Veronica begins with an apathetic sigh. "Cheryl informed me of her family's upcoming memorial service for Jason, and reminded me of the necessity of female companionship in trying times and the imminent deadline of our many assignments, and then invited me to a girls' sleepover, slash study session." Quite irrationally, Betty begins to feels the temperature in the hallway rising, keeping with the rising temperature of her blood. "I texted you to share my misfortune—unbeknownst to me, you had already been deprived of any contact with civilization by then. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I got there and found that I was the only person she had invited."

Betty has a thousand questions buzzing recklessly inside her brain, and she's well-aware that she can't ask any of them. Because they're all borne of and fueled by jealousy, which isn't something she can feel. Not yet. 

Still... the words claw out of her mouth before she can help it, as hot as lava. "So you slept at Cheryl's last night. By yourself."

It finally seems to dawn on Veronica that Betty is bothered by this, given her widened eyes and immediate response. "It wasn't that kind of sleepover."

"You mean our kind of sleepover?"

It's a low blow, she knows. She even winces as soon as the words leave her, watching Veronica's jaw slack a bit in reaction.

"I hope you're joking," Veronica deadpans stormily. Betty clenches her jaw to keep from making another comment—why is this pissing her off so much, and why can’t she control this?—and the girl seems to read that as an encouragement to speak. "Betty, I know that sometimes, when you do things emotionally, that you run away and don't want to deal with the aftermath. You... essentially, avoid it." If Veronica had meant for this to make her think about Chuck Clayton and the incident in Ethel Muggs’ hot tub, she's successful. "This weekend, we did something that we should talk about, but haven't yet had the opportunity to. I just want to make sure, so I’m not wondering this all day, that what we did is something you're okay with, that it isn't making you want to run and deflect, that this is not what is happening here."

Veronica places a steady hand on her arm that makes her entire body ache for her, but what distracts Betty from the sensation is the slow-settling, exasperated realization that Veronica honestly thinks that her irritated reaction to her evening with Cheryl is her way of avoiding talking about their own night together. Which would be great if it was true, since the real reason Betty can’t seem to drop the issue is far more embarrassing—pure, unaltered jealousy. Something that, she reminds herself once again, she can’t feel yet. Because Veronica isn’t hers.

"I just want to reassure you," Veronica adds, continuing to distract her with that hand on her arm, "that what happened between us can mean anything you want it to mean; I just want you to be comfortable with it."

Betty doesn't even know where to start. Of course she's comfortable; of course she wants to talk about them. "V, I _am_ comfortable—"

It’s almost as though the world is firmly bent on aggravating her; just then, Cheryl appears in the hallway, breezily walking past them. "Veronica. Thank you again for partaking in my family's dinner yesterday, in addition to our sleepover. Next time, do try not to be late, as I intend to finish our assignment before the end of this century."

Per her usual, Cheryl is gone before any response can be provided, flanked by her minions. And in her wake, she leaves Betty, trying very hard not to be consumed by rage. 

“Listen, I didn’t exactly relish my evening with Cheryl,” Veronica begins to explain with some palpable resolve, “I've seen police interrogations less tense than that dinner, and I have some degree of certainty that at least one horror movie has been filmed in her room.”

A part of Betty knows this is true—that a sleepover at the Blossom home would never be Veronica’s idea, and that she most likely did not enjoy it, and the fact that it took place a night after she spent the night with her is purely coincidental. 

Did Veronica just say she was in Cheryl’s room?

Betty can’t voice her most immediate thoughts, because they would probably be a resentful grumble, so she settles for her less-urgent ones. “I would rather talk about this some other time.”

“Oh my God, you’re actually mad at me,” Veronica states after a small gasp. “Really?”

“Maybe it bothers me a bit that my best friend is so chummy with a girl who hates me,” Betty asserts, just short of gritting her teeth. And even through her vexation, there’s still an uncomfortably large part of her that just wants, so, so badly, to kiss her.

“I’m not chummy with Cheryl,” Veronica defends, lowering her voice. “I was _guilted_ into my very unwilling participation, and at least the entire school doesn’t think we’re dating.”

Betty immediately chafes with indignation, recalling the ease with which Veronica invented the “Bughead” portmanteau. “Jughead and I are _friends_.”

She happens to glance at the flashing screen of Veronica’s phone, and catches sight of an incoming text from none other than Cheryl, along with the time—2 minutes until class. Two minutes to finish this conversation on good terms so she’s not pissed off for two periods. Working completely against her goal is that text, brightening a screen to which Veronica is completely oblivious.

“Well, Cheryl and I are not even that,” Veronica argues, just as indignant. And that’s what inflames Betty’s temper even more—that Veronica continuously denies any sort of friendliness with Cheryl, and yet there is so much evidence pointing to the contrary.

“If having sleepovers is what you do with people who are not your friends, what do you do with those who are? Sleep with them?”

Crap. She’s really, really close to crossing a line.

Veronica actually leans away from her, as though her words were a physical blow. 

“You know what I think?” The girl’s eyes gleam with the kind of fiery wrath that Betty recognizes instantly as a more subdued version of her reaction to Chuck Clayton’s “sticky maple” social media post. “That you _are_ deflecting,” Veronica accuses, as firm as the ground underneath them. “That while we were having sex, you hit your head, sustained a concussion, and are now under the impression that you can just avoid this forever and never talk about it, and it'll be fine.”

At some point, they are going to have to clear this up. That Betty is not against talking about them; she’s against having the girl she’s in love with sleeping over at her nemesis’ house. “I’m _not_ avoiding anything, and we _are_ fine,” she insists, scowling deeply enough that she wonders whether the hallways have darkened. 

“So I’m right. You do have a concussion.”

Ugh. They’re just going to argue forever. She knows it now. They’re not fighting—yet—because while Betty has indeed thrown a couple of verbal jabs, a fight between them would entail Veronica actually insulting her, which Betty knows, with as much certainty as she knows the laws of the universe, Veronica would never do, unless they were fighting. But they are certainly arguing and it’s making her feel as though something is dying inside her chest, because this is not how she imagined events would transpire when she finally got to see Veronica again. God, she hasn’t even told her about the conversation with Polly regarding her sexuality.

“We only have like, a minute till the bell rings and if we just stay here bickering in front of my locker, we’ll be late to first period.” It’s a widely-known fact that Veronica could not be any less attached to the notion of punctuality, but Betty has perfect attendance.

“I’ll be late anyway,” Veronica responds moodily. “You gave me a hickey on my neck shaped like Africa that took an hour and a pound of foundation to cover this morning, the reapplication of which has to occur every thirty minutes, apparently.” 

Betty blushes furiously while risking a glance at the girl’s neck. Yep. It’s faint, but it’s there. And she remembers exactly when it happened—just after she had licked her way from Veronica’s ribs to her collarbone, alternating kissing, sucking, and biting, while Veronica asked her in a breathless groan, “for the love of God, just touch me already.”

“How did you hide it from Cheryl?” she ends up blurting out, overtaken by impulsive curiosity.

“Turtleneck pajamas,” Veronica replies dryly. “And I thought we had reached an informal agreement not to discuss her anymore.”

The bell finally rings, and Betty is amenable to agreeing with the girl in front of her, if it weren’t for yet another flash in her cellphone announcing that Veronica has received an additional text from Cheryl.

In the darkest, most infuriated part of her brain, Betty is picturing herself grabbing Veronica’s phone and texting Cheryl to lay off, because Veronica is taken.

Even if, technically, she’s not. Yet.

She really, really wishes she could kiss her.

“Do you want to meet after first period?” Veronica proposes diplomatically. 

There are five minutes between first period, and second—which for Veronica is AP English, the class she has with Cheryl. Betty’s irritation flares anew.

“Are you sure you don’t want Cheryl to walk you to AP English?”

Veronica groans again, and unlike the last time Betty heard her make this sound, this one is not because she wants Betty’s hands to be in a particular place. “Are we ever going to have any conversations today into which you don't drag Cheryl?”

Betty piles on her last book and then faces Veronica, slightly annoyed with herself for still being so terribly distracted by her attraction to her.

“Please, let's just meet later; this isn't something you can sweep under the rug—” Veronica begins, but Betty remembers the numerous texts from Cheryl, remembers that she has 30 seconds to get to class, and decides to end this conversation, at least for the moment.

“Yes, it is. And this is me sweeping.” She slams her locker door shut, deriving some mild satisfaction from the loud, dramatic clang of the metal. “See you at practice.”

-

As she had anticipated, with their widely different classroom locations, it’s not hard to avoid Veronica. What it is, however, is exhausting. Because her thoughts are stuck in an endless loop consisting solely of Veronica and potential ways to fix their disagreement. In addition, the awareness that they’re not getting along saps any happiness she could have derived from this day.

By the time she crosses paths with Veronica again, it’s third period and they’re simultaneously arriving at the Vixen locker room. It’s odd, in a surreal way, to spend an entire 5 minutes wordlessly exchanging glares with the girl she wears around her heart, someone with whom, in usual circumstances, she would have been eagerly chatting. 

Betty joins the crowd of Vixens making its way to the gym inside which their practice will take place, Veronica not too far ahead of her. They’ve barely stepped foot inside and onto the squeaky, wooden surface of the floor, when Veronica abruptly turns around and collides against a surprised Betty.

“Shit! I need you to distract Cheryl so I can go back to the locker room.” Betty watches the rest of the squad members begin to warm up while Cheryl appears to be commanding someone in a phone call. There is urgency in Veronica’s whispered request, but Betty is not inclined, in the slightest, to go along with it.

“Did I imagine our conversation this morning?” Betty hisses back, flippantly. “In what universe would I willingly go talk to Cheryl—are you seriously using me to hide from her?” Veronica has turned them so that Betty has her back to the rest of the gym, while Veronica peers at the congregated squad from the space between Betty’s arm and her abdomen. 

“I don’t have a choice,” Veronica snaps, eyes still focused on whatever is taking place behind Betty. “Cheryl was looking this way and you were the only one nearby who’s tall enough—”

Betty places one hand on Veronica’s shoulder to grab her attention, ignoring a fleeting memory of sliding her hands against this very shoulder, up towards the girl’s neck. “So it’s because I’m 5’6 and you’re five-foot-nothing that you’re doing all this, not because you want to annoy me—”

Veronica rolls her eyes, momentarily focused on Betty instead of Cheryl. “I'm 5'2 and a half, and as appealing as it would be to annoy you right now—no, I need to return to the locker room in order to conceal a hickey you so kindly gave me, so I would appreciate your cooperation, Cooper.”

Betty studies the girl’s neck for a brief second. “It doesn’t need to be covered up. You can’t even see it.”

Cheryl’s megaphone-enhanced voice orders the squad into a formation, and Betty almost misses Veronica’s panicked comment: “not that one.”

As soon as Betty turns towards the gym’s open area and faces the squad, she observes Cheryl's hawk-like gaze visibly snatched by something in their direction.

The warning alarm blares inside Betty’s head—Cheryl’s predatory talons, extending towards her menacingly, reaching and reaching with escalating danger, and then finally closing around… Veronica?

"Veronica Lodge.” The voice is unmistakably ruthless and sharp; a cocktail of disdain and contempt, authoritative in a way that paralyzes every surrounding person while quickening every pulse. “When, if ever, I allow a Vixen's bedroom habits to disgrace the classy and sophisticated aesthetic of this squad, you will be more than welcome to display on your body the appallingly obvious marks of your sexual practices.” Betty doesn't have the slightest idea what the captain is referring to, so she follows the gazes of every cheerleader staring at Veronica, until her eyes land on the girl’s legs. And that’s when she sees it. 

_Holy mother of God_ —Veronica has a hickey on the inside of her thigh. 

“Until then—cover up. And tell whoever is attached to the lips that marked you that I will see to their demise if they do not shut off the vacuum function of their mouth at least 5 days before a Bulldogs game.”

Every pair of eyes in the gym is flickering so rapidly between Cheryl and Veronica that Betty fleetingly wonders whether corneas can be strained. The air is heavy with secondhand embarrassment, exacerbated by morbid curiosity—Betty is the only girl standing within enough proximity to Veronica to have an unobstructed view of the mark. Which… yes, she definitely remembers making this one, too.

“Am I clear, Lodge?"

There's a strained, heavy pause, in which it becomes clear that Veronica wants very badly to argue. Instead, she maintains a glower firmly trained on Cheryl, and replies flatly, "crystal.”

“Excellent,” Cheryl nods, dissatisfied tone indicating that things are not actually excellent. And three minutes later, as Betty runs her fourth lap around the gym—Cheryl’s “equitably-distributed punishment for a Vixen’s infraction of acceptable squad conduct”—and silently commiserates with fellow girls who are already just as worn-down by the strenuous, repetitive exercise as she is, she catches sight of Veronica veering off-course to approach Cheryl, who has been posted at the sidelines, dispensing the customary verbal abuses (“it appears your running form is as precarious as your choreography, Cooper”). 

She wants to focus on Veronica, because she’s flushed and breathless in much the same way she had been underneath Betty, but that would require her to watch her have a conversation with Cheryl, and Betty doesn’t hate herself enough to do that, so she funnels her energy into completing her laps without throwing up, and considers that to be enough of an accomplishment.

Later, when Cheryl targets another snide remark at Betty, Veronica jumps promptly to her defense and they become embroiled in their usual verbal duel, but Betty purposely tunes out the entire exchange.  
-

**THREE**

Jughead and Kevin's conversation at their lunch table is a muffled buzz upon which Betty cannot focus any of her attention. She was late to lunch, because she made the grave, horrible mistake of trying to wait for Veronica after practice, only to see her at her locker, in deep discussion with Cheryl Blossom. And after that—after irately pacing inside the emptied gym for several minutes, hoping to bury her foul temper before she ran into anyone—she had finally set course for the lunch area, wherein Veronica is nowhere in sight.

"It was a really close tie," Kevin is explaining to them, pointing helpfully to a banner posted just outside the entrance to one of the school's main hallways—an announcement that Riverdale High's winter dance is going to have what appears to be an 80's theme. "Between the theme that won out, which is 'Your Parents' Prom,' and the 'Wild, Wild West' theme."

As disinterested as she is in this conversation, Betty clears her throat and decides to display less of her apocalyptic mood, and more of the side of her that is genuinely close to these boys. "The western theme would have been kind of weird, no?"

Jughead snorts, replying, "I think 'weird' beats cheesy and cliché."

"I'm truly sorry you won't be able to wear a Stetson-style beanie, Jug," Kevin consoles, which makes Betty laugh. "It was a close tie, like I said, but Cheryl Blossom cast the tie-breaking vote. It was a very exciting session of the Student Council."

Ugh. Will more than 5 minutes of her life pass by without Cheryl disrupting her peace?

"Oh, I totally forgot to say," Kevin interjects, "when you got here, you had just missed Veronica. Cheryl dropped by and whisked her off to a human sacrifice—pardon, Vixen leadership meeting."

Betty pinches the bridge of her nose, hoping to ward off an imminent headache. 

"And this kind of thing will probably become more frequent now that she's the vice-captain—"

WHAT IN THE—

"What did you just say?" Betty cuts in, aware that her sharp tone makes this sound less like a question and more like a demand.

Jughead and Kevin are exchanging puzzled looks. The former remarks, "she doesn't have her phone, Kev; she couldn't know."

"Oh, right—I forgot," Kevin says apologetically. "It was just announced; Cheryl tweeted it like 30 minutes ago but the entire school knows already. Veronica is the Vixens' new vice-captain."

Thirty minutes ago. Just after practice. Veronica is Cheryl's vice-captain.

Her blood is past its boiling point and might as well have evaporated by now, possibly replaced by liquid steel. Which leads her to deduce that she's going to die of rage. That'll be her cause of death—rage-induced mortality.

After taking two deep, stabilizing breaths, Betty feels sufficiently recovered to ask, "hey Jug, do you have anyone to go to the dance with, yet?"

Jughead frowns. "No, I wasn't planning on going."

"How would you like to go with me?"

Kevin immediately chimes in. "Betty, the whole school already thinks Bughead is happening."

"Yeah, and don't you want to go with Archie? Or Veronica? You sure you want to go with me?"

Betty would have swayed in her determination had Veronica's name not been brought up as a potential date for this dance. But Veronica is now Cheryl Blossom's goddamn _vice-captain_ when they literally just had a prolonged, 10-minute argument about Veronica's proximity to her, so there is but one lone thought floating inside her head, which is that two can play this game.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

-

The worst was still to come, and Betty should have known. She has both fourth (American Government) and fifth (Biology) periods with Veronica and Cheryl, and the notion had been looming ominously in the horizon for the better part of this morning, but now she's actually seated in the very back of the classroom, beside a postered diagram of the bicameral Congress, within the same enclosed four walls as Veronica (seated with Archie), and Cheryl (seated with Josie). She's trapped. This is literal hell, and she can’t escape.

Because their tables are adjacent in the same row, Cheryl leans over to Veronica a few times during the course of the class, and each time it happens, Betty becomes more and more certain that today has actually been a nightmare. That her subconscious has decided to gather everything awful in the world, everything that she fears and loathes, and melded them into a single day. 

That explains why her eyes have to be cursed with the sight of Cheryl tapping Veronica on the shoulder to call her attention. It explains why she can't focus on the teachings of the professor, on Kevin's commentary, on anything except the feverish nightmare taking place in front of her.

And it also explains why the professor announces, five minutes before the conclusion of class, that for their monthly project, he will be partnering students in accordance with last names. Archie Andrews and James Adams, as well as Jughead Jones and Veronica Lodge, are all partnered. 

And so are Cheryl Blossom and Betty Cooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, the next chapter is my favorite, because it's finally time to see things from Veronica's perspective. So standby for that :)
> 
> Some chapters are more difficult to write than others, and your kind comments and messages are truly the best encouragement, so thank you. And many thanks to my beta AussieSass, the best in the land and my soulmate from the other side of the Earth.


	7. Monday, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veronica's Monday is the longest day in human history.

Sometimes Veronica would wonder whether her arrival in Riverdale, a voluntary immersion in a place so far removed from her familiar, was a good or bad decision. More often than not, she observed the side-effects of the change, in the way it stripped her of certain parts of her personality while reinforcing others, and was overcome by curiosity for her own fate—who is she going to become? 

She’s been aware of opposing, intermittently warring factions of her mind, pulling her in different directions each day. Sometimes she would find herself a step away from returning to her former self, the person whose response to occasional bouts of insecurity, of sadness, of triumph, annoyance, and self-loathing, was always to be bitchy and mean. And sometimes she’d be face-to-face with a Veronica whose first impulse was not, in fact, to be terrible—it was to be selfless and unflinchingly loyal (the kind of wholly virtuous person she would have easily preyed on only a few months ago). This is also the same Veronica who breathes, sleeps, dreams, and wakes submerged in feelings for Betty, and who’s found in the girl a kind of anchor to goodness. But still, the prospect of becoming this version of herself, of truly being a kind person like Betty, has always been terrifying, because so much of her self-perceived strength has come from outgunning others in social warfare.

On Sunday morning, when Veronica awakens, she reads a hastily-scribbled note by Betty on her study ( _of course_ she woke up late and had to hurry home) and is then overcome by a love that undoes her and simultaneously pieces her back together. She takes note of the familiar writing (neat, even when rushed), hears Betty’s voice in her heart, feels her lips bathed in the memory of her kiss, savors a warm, feather-soft sensation across skin that Betty touched and marked. She’s absolutely certain that whatever she’s going to become, some parts of her have already been carved into shape by Betty.

The last recipient of Betty's affections had been Archie—the human version of puppy pictures—so she's never allowed herself to hope that what attracted Betty to Archie would ever attract Betty to her. Now, however, she can believe that Betty sees in her something worth liking. That she's not as terrible as she had believed. She thinks now that she can choose to be the best Veronica and not falter later.

On Sunday night, when Veronica realizes that she’s the only invitee to Cheryl’s sleepover, she also notices the Blossoms’ familial tension, toxic and thick in levels that are downright jarring. Clearly, Cheryl was planted and raised in soil that predisposed her to the exact strain of malevolent hostility she so readily displays day-to-day at Riverdale High. Veronica was not privy to the goings-on of the town before Jason’s death, but she can surmise with some certainty that perhaps the folks in Riverdale have a sturdy resistance to any level of sympathy toward members of the Blossom family, which is why no one has fully picked up on the fact that Cheryl is deeply, irrevocably damaged post her brother’s death. Not all vile behavior is the same; Veronica knows there’s a stark difference between being bitchy for fun, versus being a bitch because life has dealt you a devastatingly painful hand that you’re not, and never could have been, emotionally-equipped to handle. This is a girl with whom Veronica has engaged in ruthless verbal combat, a girl she often loathes, a girl she's kissed out of spite, a girl who is more or less alone in the world. The only person Cheryl has trusted so far is her, someone who is indeed similar to Cheryl, but in ways that she hates, in ways she's trying to rid herself of.

Facing the reality of being perhaps the only friend Cheryl Blossom counts in Riverdale, Veronica assesses the paths laid before her. She rejects the impulse to leave Cheryl and Thornhill—a place that might as well be an active portal to hell—and sets out to do what Betty did for her. She decides to overlook Cheryl’s more obvious instances of villainy and focus on the good—whatever bits of it Cheryl has—and hopes that in time, perhaps with the right encouragement, Cheryl will be faced with two versions of herself as well, and maybe will choose the kinder one.

On Monday morning, all the things Veronica thought she had pieced together and understood have changed.

She enters Kevin and Betty’s conversation with a small, lingering resentment that Betty’s chosen adventure partner in the odyssey to find Polly was Jughead, not her. The radio silence that worried her all through Sunday afternoon had an explanation, but this isn’t something upon which she wishes to linger; Veronica’s overflowing, daydreaming heart would have been content in the mere opportunity to speak to Betty. Instead, the sleepover with Cheryl becomes a lit match carelessly thrown onto a pile of gunpowder.

Betty’s displeasure with this turn of events is so pronounced and heated that Veronica is delayed in comprehending, with a hiccup in her heartbeat, that they’re actually arguing. Betty makes a jagged-edged comment about whether Veronica sleeps with all her friends, and then it becomes a fight. She’s baffled with disbelief, knowing that Betty most likely doesn’t think they’re fighting yet, because Veronica’s fights involve clever, mercilessly-targeted insults, none of which have made an appearance here. But that’s because Veronica would never, ever, in a million years, insult Betty. She would sooner curse Mother Theresa or yell at a kitten than direct an offending word to Betty, but make no mistake—this is a fight.

And its more prominent objects of contention are so dispersed that Veronica is unable to effectively make her point, an utterly foreign feeling for someone who’s so accustomed to being the most eloquent person in any room, anywhere. Her attempt to defend herself on the Cheryl front only aggravates Betty more, while her efforts to guide the conversation to a more important topic—them, and the fact that they slept together—are fruitless.

On some level, Veronica understands Betty’s single-minded focus on Cheryl. Historically, nothing good has ever brewed between them, and with the knowledge that the balance always tipped decidedly in Cheryl's favor, perhaps Betty wholeheartedly expected Veronica to take her side against Cheryl, in any and all occasions. But Veronica feels that her motivation for this sleepover was good—this is what Betty did for her; Betty heard terrible things about her and yet still gave her the benefit of the doubt, she experienced firsthand Veronica’s propensity for reckless and inconsiderate behavior when she kissed Archie, and yet she still forgave her, and allowed Veronica the opportunity to want to be better. None of this is being taken into consideration here, because Betty is so thoroughly pissed off.

Underneath each calculated word, each insistent proposal that they talk instead of trade barbs, what Veronica actually wants to say is, “you’re very close to surgically extracting my heart and crushing it beneath your feet,” but what comes out instead is, “please, let’s just meet later.” What she hears is resounding rejection, and what she sees is Betty storming off.

Surrounded by the white noise of the Trigonometry professor’s instruction, Veronica is shrouded by conflicting strands of thought. She needs to give Betty time to calm down. She needs to make additional attempts to talk to her. She needs to leave this alone. The longer she allows this to fester, the worse it will become. If Betty harbored any feelings for her, she would not be reacting this way. It’s precisely because Betty has feelings for her that she’s reacting this way.

If Betty's animosity toward Cheryl is truly at the root of their discord, then Veronica will patiently await the storm's passing, and meet Betty on the other side, in circumstances better suited for a level-headed discussion. If, however, this argument is Betty's way of indirectly conveying her regret for their night together, then Veronica truly has no plan to repair this fiasco. That would be the worst part. She’d be completely out of her depth, in every way. Throughout her life, whenever her looks failed her, she had her brain, and when that failed too—not that it ever did—she had money. In the present matter with Betty, none of these can help her. There is no way to “get” Betty. Manipulation, scheming, flirtation, seduction, and backstabbing will not make Betty hers. Veronica made a real, tangible effort to be good, to deserve this girl; she did her best, and there’s a very real possibility that it wasn’t enough.

In English, an unassuming Cheryl, sharing a table with a stony Veronica, comments idly on the group-texts she’s been sending all morning to the Vixens, in which she’s teased some kind of exciting reveal for their next season, and then goes on to casually dole out her daily prescribed doses of scorn onto every surrounding student. Watching the usual massacres taking place, Veronica is reminded of the person she was—still is. The destructive urges she’s worked so hard to quell are still inside her. Her first impulses, the ones she works so hard to suppress, are always—have always been—to be rude, to humiliate. Something terrible looms darkly over her deliberations: none of this has gone away. It had been easy to attribute the less-than-stellar aspects of her personality to wealth, but now that she has been stripped of it, she would have no excuse to be a terrible person unless this is just who she is.

On her way to 3rd period, as an irritable Veronica deposits her books inside her locker before heading to cheerleading practice, a boy timidly approaches her, notebooks in hand. He’s nervous as he invites her to be his date for the upcoming winter dance, an event about which Veronica had forgotten entirely.

She should be nice. She should be polite. But she doesn't think she's either of those things; not naturally.

The old Veronica pushes against her cage, an inner voice that’s hard to silence. An inner voice that becomes an outward voice, coated in disdain. “I don’t know who you are. All I know is that in the title of the essay you’re holding, which I assume you wrote, there’s an apostrophe being used to denote a plural. It appears, then, that I’m in AP English and you’re illiterate. Do you really want to go there?”

The boy is harmless and stunned, completely immobile.

“Thought not.”

She leans forward, intending to step away from her locker and towards the locker room.

The boy is also in her way.

“Do I need to insult you in iambic pentameter to prove a point here? Scram,” she directs impatiently, resuming her journey when her target finally clears her path.

Third period is the expected disaster—any class with Betty today will be composed of a series of mini-catastrophes. Halfway through another one of their arguments, Cheryl’s eagle eyes spot the hickey on Veronica’s thigh, and Veronica curses herself for not remembering its presence when she took such exhaustive precautions to conceal the marks on her neck and chest. Cheryl’s admonishment that she will “see to the demise” of “whoever is attached to the lips that marked you” almost makes her laugh, but she supposes the indignity of public humiliation is warranted in this case, and an appropriate response to her misbehavior. Cheryl’s decision to order the entire squad to run laps around the gym as an “equitably-distributed punishment,” however, is not.

Veronica approaches Cheryl with ill-hidden animosity. “You’re disciplining the entire squad for something I did,” she accuses flatly, without preamble.

As she anticipated, Cheryl welcomes the confrontation. “But it wasn’t only you, was it?” Veronica wants to frown, wants to narrow her eyes to study the girl's composure for any signs of uncertainty, but she controls her reaction tightly. Cheryl doesn’t know about her and Betty. No one knows. She’s bluffing. “Would you rather I punish the entire squad, or punish you and the other person involved?”

Oh, shit.

She’s bluffing, she's guessing, but she's correct.

In some twisted way, Veronica realizes, Cheryl is attempting to strike a balance between performing her captain duties in imposing discipline for what she believes is out-of-standard appearance, while being what she thinks is a "good friend" by sparing Veronica the added acrimony of having her relations with Betty exposed. Cheryl is… trying. Failing miserably, but trying nonetheless.

“Your hands are poorly-positioned, Williams!” Cheryl calls out correctively.

Veronica senses movement behind her, catches sight of Cheryl widening her eyes with glee, and realizes immediately that Cheryl is taking aim, and Betty is the bull’s-eye.

She turns just as Cheryl is declaring, “as for you, Cooper, cease and desist your graceless jogging, swamp creature, before you set off my allergy to mediocrity.”

Something in Veronica is triggered to action; she releases the inflammatory reply that seems to always rest at the tip of her tongue, like a reflex. “You’re already setting off everyone’s collective allergy to bitchiness and inept leadership, so perhaps we could all just chill with the unnecessary insults.”

Her eyes dart to Betty automatically, hoping Cheryl’s words haven’t affected her, and instead sees Betty purposely unattuned to the scene.

Five minutes before the bell’s ring can announce the end of third period, Cheryl calls out, “hit the showers, Vixens!” Then, she gives a sullen Veronica a satisfied smile and adds wryly, in a much lower voice, “not together.”

Her intuition that Betty is going to avoid her until her temper calms turns out to be correct—Betty practically disappears into thin air at the conclusion of practice. As Veronica moodily stocks away her uniform inside her gym locker, she is at once dismayed and annoyed when Cheryl nears her with a snide smirk.

“Are you ever going to tire of being Betty’s personal pitbull?” Veronica scoffs; Cheryl continues with undeterred delight. “I have been in search of a vice-captain and have found you to be most fitting.”

Veronica wants to laugh at the audacious invitation. She has literally no reason to accept this, especially not when she's been so recently reminded of how awful her actions are towards Betty. “Are you ever going to tire of being the second coming of Stalin?” She shuts her locker and trains a defiant gaze on the girl. “As for the vice-captainship, I have no aspirations to be Satan’s handmaiden, but thank you anyway.”

She moves towards the exit, but Cheryl leans to block her way, apparently scandalized by her response. Veronica grits her teeth at her obstructed path; this is really becoming a trend today.

“You have perhaps misunderstood the distinction of this invitation, Veronica.”

“We don’t even get along, Cheryl. At all,” Veronica reminds pointedly, stopping just shy of remarking that they are not friends, and that Cheryl has made that impossible for them with her daily attempts to demean the girl Veronica loves. She decides to be a bit more flippant, intending on zeroing in on the true motivation behind Cheryl’s invitation. “This isn’t my first time at the bitch rodeo, so what’s your angle here?”

“The current handmaidens leave much to be desired in intellect, possessing the combined IQ of a bottom-dwelling invertebrate, which is not your case,” Cheryl offers as a simple explanation that, however seemingly sincere, Veronica does not buy for one moment. The girl apparently senses her skepticism, because she crosses her arms petulantly and adds with a tinge of defensiveness, "you might perhaps be critical of my methods, but I strive for excellence and am not in the business of pardoning subpar performances for the sake of sparing others from feelings of inadequacy."

With this blatantly transparent reference to Betty, Veronica's patience vanishes. "Your 'methods' have consisted of criticism that has, baselessly and disproportionately, targeted Betty. And you don't know anything about her, Cheryl. Everything you say and think about her is untrue. You have no idea who she is, or of her potential." She's exasperated by this undoubtedly futile attempt to make this girl understand. "And here is someone who is part of your squad—the team you're supposed to be leading, not undermining through individualized terror."

"I can appreciate your... infantile views of leadership, and the confidence with which you express them." Cheryl clears her throat, visibly straining to measure her words while maintaining her version of an open, friendly smile. "Which is why I believe you should reconsider the offer."

A quick, blurred movement by the locker room exit grabs her peripheral vision, and Veronica isn't sure whether she spotted blond hair or sunlight reflected on a metallic surface. Her immediate alert for Betty's possible presence must have been quite obviously displayed on her face because Cheryl's smile widens—a harbinger of nothing good.

"Apropos nothing in particular, was that trouble in B and V paradise that I sensed today?" Veronica snaps her attention back to the girl in front of her, dread soaking through her nerves. "Perhaps Betty could better inform me on the origins of your disgracefully indecent mark, Veronica." Goddamn it. Cheryl will ruin further what is already not in a great state. "Perhaps I should inquire—"

Veronica slams her hand onto the locker beside her, effectively stopping an advancing Cheryl on her tracks. "I'll be your vice-captain."

If she's ever encountered a larger amount of smugness concentrated into one facial expression, she can't remember it.

"Of course you will," Cheryl gloats, practically beaming. "If the welfare of your precious Betty Cooper is imperiled, how could you not?"

Betty Cooper. The softest spot in her heart, the easiest to bruise—her only true weakness. It's alarming and embarrassing how easily it can be exploited, as Cheryl has just discovered.

But if she must surrender to blackmail, then she might as well gain something from it. It's the mantra that helps her ford through indecisiveness; lose the battle, but win the war.

"I'll be your vice-captain, and in return, you lay off Betty." Cheryl raises an eyebrow questioningly. "Permanently."

Now it's the redhead's turn to scoff, but Veronica does not indulge her incredulity. "I won’t accept if you don’t." Once she catches sight of Cheryl's reluctant, barely perceptible nod of agreement, Veronica embraces her frustration and annoyance, so embittered by this conversation and by the entire day preceding it, and her assertion becomes much more impassioned than it would have been otherwise. "Let me assure you that I am taking this deal very seriously. I'm agreeing to something I have no natural inclination to become, and you don't know me, Cheryl. You don't know who I used to be. If I hear one more insult or mean-spirited and unconstructive comment about Betty's cheerleading skill, or her weight, or her sister, or her family, or Archie, or literally anything else that isn't a positive testament to the amazing person she is, I will _bury_ you." She's taken a step forward without realizing it; her words scorch with the danger of her threat. "I will destroy whatever social standing you may have built during your reign of terror, and I will sink you into obscurity. Do we have an understanding?"

Cheryl is fascinated, as if she's witnessed something marvelous unfold before her. Discreetly aghast, Veronica doesn't think she's ever seen someone respond to menacing words quite like this.

"You're going to be a great vice-captain; I can tell," Cheryl boasts with excitement, whipping out a cellphone from her purse. "Here. Pose for a picture. I make my announcements through social media."

Twenty seconds later, Cheryl Blossom's five thousand followers receive an enthusiastic update: Veronica Lodge is the newly-inaugurated Riverdale High cheerleading squad vice-captain.

Now on lunch period, Veronica heads to their customary table and her eyes search for Betty, who is nowhere to be found. Kevin, on the other hand, awaits her with a growing grin and a just-opened bag of cookies.

“Congrats, Vixen vice-captain.”

“I'm still firmly in denial about this unfortunate development,” Veronica mutters darkly, setting down her purse and apathetically removing her own packed lunch. "If Cheryl and I don't murder one another by the end of the first week, I'll let you know how it goes."

Kevin leans forward, a clear sign that the ensuing topic will be salacious. “Speaking of murder, did you tell whoever gave you that hickey that Cheryl Blossom will see to their demise?”

Apparently, it’s only taken a portion of a period for this piece of news to spread as well. Terrific.

“No, I didn't,” Veronica replies sulkily. “And I'm glad the entire school knows about that, too.”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

If the source of the mark had been anyone but Betty, Veronica would have been thrilled to discuss the topic with Kevin, her companion in all gossip-related matters. Unfortunately, the subject is—and will be, for all of the foreseeable future, apparently—strictly off-limits.

"No… not yet." She’s apologetic and Kevin is understanding, and she’s never been more grateful for his easy-going nature.

"Did you see the flyers for the dance on Friday?" Kevin asks, lively with his investment in the subject. Veronica nods with discreet indifference, recalling the one invitation she's already turned down. Until it becomes known that she has a date for the dance, she anticipates receiving a number of requests throughout the week. "Who'll be Veronica Lodge's lucky date?"

The person with whom Veronica wants to go just happens to have almost chopped her head off this morning for sleeping over at Cheryl Blossom's house, and that was before Veronica accepted the vice-captainship. She has to make some sort of attempt to ask Betty, of course, but she's bracing herself for an uphill battle.

"I'm not entirely sure, yet," Veronica replies, stabbing a slice of mango with her fork.

She shares another slice with Kevin and he comments, "the student council had a pretty heavy debate about the theme—western versus 80's. It was a tie—"

"And thankfully..." As if timed by cosmic coincidence, Cheryl Blossom herself appears beside their table. "Our eyes shall be spared from a swarm of wild, wild messes." Deftly, Cheryl turns to Veronica before Kevin can fire off a good reply. "Veronica, we have a meeting."

An involuntary sigh betrays her mind's unenthusiastic response—seriously, didn't they just see one another?— while Kevin's eyebrow raise points to his obvious dissatisfaction with the intrusion.

"Captain to vice-captain," Cheryl continues, less hostile and more business-like. "Routines, uniforms, musical tracks." Kevin opens his mouth in a minute movement and the redhead's tone shifts immediately. "I'd rather not have subordinates or members of the school's social fringe listening in to classified leadership decisions."

What kind of clause would she have to amend to their verbal agreement to extend Cheryl's attitude improvement towards all her friends, and not just Betty?

"Come on, Cruella, let Veronica at least enjoy her lunch before you drag her into your latest evil hijinks," Kevin advocates with a grin.

As a reply, Cheryl checks her prohibitively expensive watch and states impatiently, "Veronica, tell Elton John to keep his unsolicited ideas to himself, and come with me."

Veronica decides to avoid another verbal sparring session and follows Cheryl instead, coming to terms with the fact that her dealings with this girl will always be, at best, a mild inconvenience, and at worst, a steady, constant source of annoyance.

She finds herself in a dusty, dim, vacated classroom in an irregularly-used section of the school, and immediately asks cheekily, "what kind of mood lighting is this?" Cheryl actually chuckles at this, setting her handbag onto one of the long-unused desks. Veronica examines the chalkboard behind her and the slow rate at which her eyes are adjusting to the darkness and adds, "either this classroom has an alarmingly-deficient electrical system or you've just bamboozled me into participating in a séance."

Cheryl walks towards the opposite end of the classroom, remarking, "does your predilection for dramatic flair know no bounds?"

"That's really rich coming from you," is Veronica's instant response, amused by the irony. "Anyway, I joined a cheerleading squad, not a cult, so if you'll excuse me..." Just as she takes the first step towards the door, the light fixtures above them flicker into life and Veronica notices, for the first time, a rack of sparkling-new uniforms by the board. The blue is darker and deeper, almost navy, and the golden highlights pop with warmth. The tailoring seems sharper and the fabric of better quality. Her mouth drops a bit with the unexpected reveal. "Oh. Are those..."

"Our new uniforms?" Cheryl asks, obviously pleased with Veronica's reaction. "Yes. As my second in command, yours is the privilege of previewing them before the rest of the squad."

"And what a privilege it is," she says dryly as she approaches the rack and reaches for the first set of uniforms, stiff with disuse under her touch. This is what Cheryl has been texting about all morning.

"Your sarcasm is easily detected," Cheryl comments lightly, behind her.

Veronica laughs lowly. "Oh, I wasn't trying to hide it," she counters softly, not minding that she had intended the words to be brassier. Her fingertips familiarize themselves with the texture and she smiles, because the feel and scent of new clothes will always be pleasing. She wonders how Betty will look in these. And then her mind wanders to how Betty looks without anything on, and she hates herself for being unable to control this. "They're really nice."

"Of course they are; I designed them." The words are haughty, but the tone is not as appallingly cocky as Veronica expects. Cheryl is excited in an almost childlike way, humanity fully on display to counter all the times she's been an indestructible force of nature. "I was going for a modern twist on an iconic classic."

This is the part of Cheryl no one—still alive—has glimpsed, but Veronica. It weighs on her again, the significance of these moments.

"You're too smart for your own good, Cheryl," Veronica mutters, words leaving her as faintly as thoughts.

"Veronica, your flattery is truly unnecess—"

"That's why you're a bitch," Veronica explains with a sympathetic purse of her lips. "Because you're smarter than everyone around you and it bores you." She pauses, providing an opportunity for the girl to respond, but, met only with disconcerted silence, she continues. "I am, as you've stated previously, your equal. But we're not friends and you don't get along with my best friend, which is why you keep inciting arguments between us; because this is the only way you can ever talk to me." Cheryl's disconcertment has morphed into fully-realized chagrin. "Did I hit all the right points?"

The ensuing pause is so long that Veronica wonders whether Cheryl plans to answer her at all. But then she does, with an acquiescing nod. "You never cease to amaze me, Lodge."

Can she do this? Can she actually help someone be good? Can she be a Betty to someone else?

"You know, if you uphold your part of our agreement and cease to pester Betty, we could be friends."

She lets the suggestion linger heavy between them, and mentally she's begun to prepare herself for Betty's reaction to a potential friendship between her best friend and her worst enemy. Optimistically, she hopes Betty will understand; that in this tug-of-war between the side of Veronica that's terrified to piss Betty off even more and the side of her that wants her approval in doing the right thing, the latter will win.

"I would like that."

-

On her way out of her meeting with Cheryl, Veronica takes hurried steps towards the lunch area, wondering whether she can still catch Betty at their table before the period ends in...

She glances down at her phone. Crap—five minutes. The "Vixen leadership meeting" took much longer than she intended.

She also has a text awaiting her, a new entry in the group-text containing her, Betty, Kevin, Archie, and Jughead.

_K_Keller: since Betty and Jughead are going to the dance together, does anyone want to talk about transportation arrangements?_

Veronica stops in her tracks. Betty and Jughead. Going to the dance together.

Betty. And Jughead.

She lowers her phone, watching with a frown the carefree, routine flow of students from hallways to the central courtyard as a slow-setting picture is formed before her.

Jughead... who would not have asked Betty.

Reggie Mantle materializes in front of her, sleazy in a manner that appears almost glue-like and immediately repels her.

"VeeLo, what are my chances of taking you to the dance?"

Betty must have _asked_ Jughead.

She responds distractedly because she can't devote her energy to this conversation when it is so thoroughly focused on something else. "Imaginary. Non-existent. Take your pick."

It is Betty's full prerogative to go with whomever she wants. And this is who she wants—Jughead.

"Come on, Lodge; the captain of the football team and the vice-captain of the cheerleaders—we're meant to be."

Unless Betty did this intentionally. Knowing it would affect her, knowing she would care.

Reggie lays an uninvited hand onto her shoulder, abruptly derailing her train of thought. He gives her the same suggestive wink he gives every unfortunate girl, and her patience evaporates so completely that it's almost as though she never had any to begin with.

"Mantle, I will rain fire upon this shitty little school, in this shitty little cesspool of mediocrity that you call a town, if you don't step away from me."

This time, she does not wait for him to act upon her prompt. She burns a path around him, marches to her locker, and angrily retrieves her books in preparation for fourth period, American Government. A class she has with Betty. The same Betty who slept with her yesterday and now is recklessly extracting every last bit of Veronica's sanity.

"Hey, Veronica."

It's Archie. Well-intentioned, tender-hearted, naïve Archie. Concerned and reluctant Archie.

"Hi, Arch," she greets tiredly.

"You good? You seem... um, kind of angry."

She's _furious_ but that’s not something with which she should trouble him.

"Reggie told me you blew him off for the dance and asked me to find out if it's…” He trails off, reading from his cellphone screen with confusion, “because you're ovulating?"

Great. Now she's furious _and_ also repulsed by a display of blatant sexism.

"Yes, how I love having my decisions attributed to hormonal variation," she asserts caustically, closing her locker.

"He's planning on asking you again."

"He's already used up the patriarchy's favorite insult, but I so would love to see which other subtly misogynistic ways he comes up with to ask me."

Archie is visibly piecing together her diatribe and she sighs, well-aware that he should not have been the recipient of even the smallest measure of her annoyance.

"I don't want to go to this dance," she sums up, hoping she can avoid broaching the topic of Betty altogether. "The fact that the two people who have asked me were either functionally-illiterate or the human embodiment of chauvinism should be a clear indicator of my prospects."

"I could go with you, if you want," Archie offers, so effortless in his courtesy that she can't help deflating in the anger that had just begun to bubble over again. "I don't have a date yet, either. And we could all stick together like normal."

Archie Andrews, steadfast in kindness. A true friend, to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are only halfway there! Please check out part III.


	8. Monday, Pt. III

It's not that Veronica isn't hyper-sensitive to Betty's presence behind her in their American Government classroom, because she is. In fact, she's unnaturally aware of every movement in the classroom, her body tense with the unlikely possibility of Betty's approach.

And it's not that she isn't remembering Betty's smile, her voice, and her touch, and it's not that Veronica isn't slowly hemorrhaging from the Betty-sized hole in her chest, because she is. But she has two primary motivators ensuring she doesn't address her issues with Betty directly, and that keeps her away from Betty's path for the entirety of fourth period—one, her indignation that Betty's behavior has been so needlessly inconsiderate, and two, her determination to be patient and wait until Betty comes to her senses and contacts her to discuss things appropriately.

The moment, however, in which her considerations suffer a minor adjustment, is when the professor announces that not only will Veronica be partnered with Jughead for their upcoming monthly assignment, but Betty will be partnered with none other than Cheryl Blossom.

Immediately, she turns to Cheryl—not Betty—to project through her stern facial expression a reminder of their deal. Cheryl cannot, and will not, mistreat Betty again. Her partnership with Jughead is a relative non-issue; Jughead is one of the nicest, most wholesome and resilient people Veronica has ever met in her life, someone downright admirable given his lifelong adversities.

Once fourth period ends and fifth period Biology begins, Veronica’s demeanor transforms from slow-boiling resentment, to worry. Betty takes Biology with her (and Cheryl, for that matter), and is not in class. Her anxiety heightens by each passing second, and minutes before the class ends, Veronica excuses herself, alleging a sudden illness, and immediately sets out to find Betty—hopefully in time to attend her last class of the day, 6th period French.

While she takes quick, large strides through the deserted main hallway, she narrows down her list of possible locations—empty classrooms, parking lot, lunch area, infirmary, library…

The library. It’s surprisingly large, relatively empty at all times, and the place Veronica could conceivably go to for solitude. It might not necessarily be Betty’s preferred hideout location, but it would definitely be her best chance to spend any time undiscovered.

She offers an appallingly transparent excuse for her presence to the inattentive librarian and then is immersed within rows upon rows of rarely-accessed books and reading materials. She makes distracted mental notes of works that interest her—it has been a while since her last reading of _Middlemarch_ —but is mostly bracing herself for the moment she finally finds Betty.

When she does find her, however, she’s nonetheless unprepared and caught off-guard at the sight of the figure tucked morosely into a sparse single-person sofa, backed into the poorest-illuminated area of perhaps the entire library, dejectedly flipping through a hardcover.

Seeing Betty again, in the vacuum of this isolated place and only a few feet away from her, is almost momentous; it’s catching sight of something achingly familiar from a distance, it’s navigating the immediate aftershock in her body, it’s negotiating in her mind that she is stronger than her fears and apprehensions and that even if it feels like an eternity has passed since they've spoken, it’s only been a few periods, so Betty is likely still mad at her; it’s seeing the past twenty-four hours of her life blur by before her eyes, a time in which the need to be close to Betty again had gnawed and seared through her.

She wants to surrender to the tempest of self-doubt, but she remains rooted to her spot, rooted to this town, rooted to her feelings, because of Betty.

And she’s about to announce her presence in what she hopes will be an informal, casual greeting, when a bored teenaged-male voice bursts behind her.

“Hall passes, please?”

Betty’s eyes dart up to take in the sight of Veronica and the solemn senior hall monitor. It takes Veronica a second to remember that her hall pass is for the infirmary, and here she is, in the library, halfway through sixth period. Meanwhile, Betty’s ambushed expression tips her off that she, too, does not have a pass. They exchange wide-eyed glances and Veronica purses her lips as Betty raises an accusing eyebrow.

Crap.

-

“I’m stuck in detention with you and Cheryl Blossom.” Betty’s statement is almost perplexed with horror. “This is hell and I’m in it.”

They’re in Riverdale High’s dusty, spiderweb-coated trophy room, located in the school’s annex—a building separate from where most classes are held—eyeing a pile of cleaning products on the desk in front of them (sponges, towels, sprays, gloves, and a bucket), while listening to Cheryl argue with the detention monitor over the necessity for such “barbarous castigation”—the task of “unfilthy-ing” a space that looks like a crime scene from the 1960's. 

Each girl’s respective reaction to being sentenced to a period of detention varied from one extreme (Cheryl’s appalled “are you aware of the gravity of your request?” when directed to surrender her cellphone) to the other (Betty’s flat, disinterested “I don’t have a phone. I’m already grounded by my parents” response to the same order), with Veronica falling squarely in the middle—compliant but vaguely horrified, since her former school in New York was as posh as it was lax.

“And this is your fault,” Betty continues resentfully, and at this, Veronica scoffs with indignation.

“You were the one who cut class first,” she argues back in a fierce whisper as they angrily pull the gloves over their hands. “You were probably going to get detention anyway.”

“Not if you hadn’t brought the hall monitor with you,” Betty fires back heatedly. “And, how could I forget— _Cheryl freaking Blossom_.” 

The fact that Cheryl also skipped their last period to look for Veronica (“yes, I incurred an unauthorized absence; however, my intentions were noble, as I was merely ensuring the welfare of my vice-captain.”) and had consequently also been placed in detention is something Veronica can’t quite defend, so as the redhead is pointing out constitutional inconsistencies in the school’s student code to the exasperated senior before them, she decides to address a bigger concern. 

“If you hadn’t decided to hide from me all day, I wouldn’t have had cause to worry, and therefore would not have gone looking for you in the first place.”

There’s a small, hesitant pause in Betty’s movements. “I wasn’t hiding from you.”

Veronica turns to her, more than a little irked by the lukewarm denial. “You skipped 5th period—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t want to see Cheryl throwing herself at you for a whole other hour,” Betty interrupts through gritted teeth; “I already had to put up with it in American Government.”

Veronica plows on, increasingly irritable, “and unless you’ve developed an interest in Albania or Hungary, there was no reason for you to be by the Balkan languages section—literally the remotest corner of the library. So yeah, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you were hiding from me.”

Betty pointedly avoids her eyes, and then they are tiredly told by the detention monitor that he will be periodically checking in their progress and adherence to the detention regulations. Once he exits the classroom (and, if Veronica is not mistaken, actually locks the door behind him), Cheryl instantly scrutinizes the table and their cleaning equipment. 

Veronica is nowhere near the level of enthusiasm she believes is necessary to scrub and mop this place into acceptable levels of cleanliness, but she picks up a sponge and a bottle of spray nonetheless, hoping she won’t make it too obvious that she has never cleaned anything in her entire life. Just as she catches sight of Betty extending a hand to grab the bucket, Cheryl speaks up.

“As the obvious choice for leader in this endeavor,” she begins matter-of-factly, and Betty’s expression shifts from passive indifference to vexed, “I shall provide for a few basic rules to establish order.” Veronica sighs with detachment, intending on tuning out the entirety of whatever Cheryl is about to monologue, until she jolts to attention when the girl instructs firmly, “firstly, no public displays of affection. They are a needless distraction and you must refrain from engaging in anythi—”

Veronica’s panic bursts inside her in a paralyzing surge. Betty doesn’t know that Cheryl knows. Betty is going to absolutely lose her sh—

“Public displays of affection?” Betty interjects with dangerously narrowed eyes, as if she could, with the right amount of encouragement, murder either one of her detention companions.

In an eruption of breathless, feverish energy, Veronica snatches Betty’s hand and pulls her rapidly in the direction of what looks like a supply closet, calling out hastily, “give us a minute, Cheryl!”

Once the door is shut behind her, Veronica finds that the unkind universe has arranged for her to enclose them inside a dark, tiny closet barely wider than its own entrance. 

“Was there no smaller room you could have pulled us into?” Betty snaps, and because Veronica’s veins are still filled with frenzied stress, she responds to the critical jab with some sarcasm of her own.

“Being close to me didn’t seem to bother you yesterday, when you had your _hand in my underwear_.”

Even through the insufficient lighting, she can easily spot Betty’s blushing.

The girl promptly stiffens back into an offensive stance, however, when she demands irately, “did you seriously tell Cheryl about us?” Before Veronica can prepare a reply, Betty adds with fuming outrage, “telling Cheryl Blossom something like this is like begging to be blackmailed!”

Yes. Veronica knows all about that, in fact.

“Don’t insult me,” Veronica cuts her off sullenly. “Of course I didn’t tell her. She figured it out herself.”

Practically huffing, Betty shoots back, “how in the world did she ‘figure’ out—”

At this point, Veronica’s flared temper incites her to interrupt the incensed girl. “ _How?_ Oh, maybe because she knows we made out in a closet on Saturday night and that we had a sleepover afterwards, and that you’ve been avoiding me all of this morning, while I coincidentally have a _hickey_ on my _thigh_ ,” she retorts pointedly with a wrathful glare. “Maybe that has something to do with it, I’d say.”

Abruptly, Betty falters, seemingly unnerved. “I was, um, going to apologize for that.” 

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Veronica continues grudgingly, “I love walking around looking like I’ve been mauled by a bear.” 

Betty throws her an ill-tempered scowl and states evenly, “I would have apologized earlier but you’re going around glued at the hip to Cheryl—” 

Veronica throws her hands above her in exasperation, acknowledging at once that this move was a mistake—she’s practically invited Betty into yet another argument about Cheryl.

“Betty—” she tries, but it’s too late.

“The vice-captain thing—did you do that just to get to me?” The emotions clouding the surface of Betty’s face are a mix of anger, resentment, and puzzlement, and Veronica feels acutely the sting of being the cause of her distress. “Because you know how I feel about Cheryl, and her brother, and her family. We literally just argued about this today—”

“Betty—”

“—and then you accept the position that will now obligate you to spend even more time with her—”

“I didn’t—”

“You could be buddies with anyone! Literally anyone!” Betty is baffled. Truly, thoroughly baffled. And Veronica attempts to gather her strength to respond in some way, but Betty is much quicker. “Why her? Why someone who hates me? Why the girl who calls me ‘an aggregation of recessive genes?’”

There’s a millisecond-long pause in Betty’s tirade and a defensive Veronica leaps in. “I didn’t accept the vice-captainship to do something against you. I did it for you. For your benefit.” She can’t help aggressively leaning forward a bit, the better to broach the topic that has been infuriating her all day. “I do everything for you, _thinking_ of your well-being, which is not a consideration you extend to me.”

For once, Betty appears actually taken aback. Veronica maintains her bubbling irritation as she discloses, “I want to make this perfectly clear here—I don’t care that you’re going to the dance with Jughead. He's a great friend to everyone, and all-around an amazing person. It doesn't bother me.” She ensures that her voice is steady and clear when she adds, “what does bother me is why you're going with him. You’re going with him because you thought it would bother me. You literally did something _wanting_ to upset me. And _that_ upsets me.”

The color of Betty’s eyes, the shape of the birthmark on her hip, the warmth of her skin, all these details she’d subconsciously committed to memory without preparing herself for the possibility that a mere day later, they would be a mess of resentment and hostility, opposing wills clashing in a darkened, grimy closet. 

“You already knew what would upset me; I told you,” Betty contends lowly, reminding Veronica that this altercation began as a shouting match and has evolved into murmured accusations. She makes a vague motion towards the door, drawing her attention to the person outside of it. “And you still went ahead and did it anyway.”

Veronica is exhausted. Through her life, and especially in the years that formed her, she fought everything and everyone; there was never a shortage of aplomb coursing through her Lodge blood. But something about Betty completely disarms her, weakens her natural brawn, strips her of the pride that sustains her muscles. How utterly unprepared she was, to love someone this much.

"I just wanted you to..." Understand, she almost says. Betty was nearing forgiveness for the sleepover, but the vice-captain position ensured that she was pushed as far away from that as possible without severing their friendship. Their friendship, the basis for the person Veronica would like to be.

“You got my first kiss; my first time…” Through each of Betty’s battered words, Veronica knows what this feeling is; this is like her heart wandered into the woods and is stepping onto a bear trap. “What else do you want from me?”

A knock on the door prompts a hardened Betty to grab the knob and state flatly, “I’m leaving.” She swings the door open and they are both startled by an expectant and chipper Cheryl, posted a few feet away from the door.

“I solemnly pledge that I heard naught a word uttered in that room,” she assures sincerely, “I only knocked because the period has reached its conclusion, and far be it from me to allow the monitor to interrupt your session of Sapphic delight.”

“I’m leaving,” Betty announces again, all large and purposeful strides to the exit. “I’m already grounded, so I’m sure my parents will be absolutely overjoyed that I had to stay late today because I got detention.” Veronica quietly begins to remove her gloves, resigned to listening to Betty as the girl adds bitterly, “anyway, if you both will excuse me, my execution will be in a few minutes and I like to be punctual.”

A brief silence overcomes the room, pierced only by a faint rattling sound. Veronica turns her attention to the door against which Betty is leaning her weight.

“The door’s locked.”

“The detention monitor never did perform his mandated compliance check,” Cheryl remarks with a frown. “And the period is indeed over—has been, for approximately 10 minutes.”

All three girls exchange tense, worried looks.

“We have no cellphones, and no exit,” Betty comments in a pensive mumble.

“We must find a way to reach a student outside who may rescue us,” Cheryl says with some apparent anxiety. “Lest our peril be more serious than we are anticipating.”

Veronica rolls her eyes, restraining the urge to share an annoyed look with Betty. “We are not in peril, and we don’t need to be rescued.”

“I call being cut off from civilization being ‘in peril,’” Betty rebuts snappily, a reminder to Veronica that they are in terrible terms at the moment.

Her eyes conduct a quick search of their surroundings and she surges with excitement after spotting a landline telephone. They find the device to be alarmingly old—at least twenty years—but it is a comforting sight nonetheless.

It takes a depressingly quick succession of trials between the three girls before they realize that what they have in hand is a telephone so old that it cannot complete calls to cellphones. The only person who can recall a landline telephone number from memory is Cheryl—a telephone installed at the Thornhill’s horse stable—but after several unanswered attempts, the girls decide to abandon the idea.

Veronica locates another antiquity—a ten-year-old copy of a phone directory book (“oh, that’s why it’s called ‘Yellow Pages;’ the pages are yellow” is Cheryl’s realization)—and takes it upon herself to search through it for a useful number while Cheryl and Betty study the door’s lock for signs that it can be opened from inside.

She intends on calling the Riverdale High office, but is unable to find its number, so she settles for what she believes is the next-best option: a locksmith. 

“Look at this one,” she points as Betty leans distractingly close to read the fine print. “It's near; their ad claims that they are ‘within 5 minutes of wherever you are.’ It must be within walking distance of the school.”

Betty sighs with disappointment, leaning away from the book and wincing as though stung by a headache. Veronica has a second to question her actions before Betty reveals with disanimation, “that’s a Greendale phonebook, V. That locksmith is in Greendale.”

Cheryl betrays unsubtle signs of exhaustion as she massages her shoulder and says, “and Greendale is across Sweetwater River, Veronica, which isn't walking distance unless you're Jesus.”

The tone is not particularly abrasive, but Betty snaps into a retort. “Maybe you can stop harassing the girl who moved here four months ago, Blossom.”

It takes Veronica by surprise, and before she can intervene, Cheryl has replied acidly, “really? This is what activates your Protective Girlfriend Mode?”

Anticipating an escalation, Veronica decides to settle their heightened spirits by forcefully reminding, “can we get back to task? Quarreling isn’t getting us anywhere closer to escaping Riverdale’s version of Guantanamo.”

"I think I could get on top of that," Betty points to a 6ft-tall metal cabinet that looks alarmingly unsteady. "And unlock the window on top of it, climb out, and then open the door for us from the outside, or get some help."

Veronica gapes at the girl and the danger at which she's throwing herself. "Um. No."

Of course, instead of softening Betty with her concern, what her words do is bristle her. "Veronica, just because you're the vice-captain now, it doesn't mean you get to boss me around when we're not in uniform."

"I'm worried for your safety," Veronica shoots back defensively.

"Yes, I forgot you do everything out of worry for me," Betty replies caustically. 

"When you two are done with your civil war reenactment, I believe this idea warrants further discussion," Cheryl cuts in, much to Veronica's shock and Betty's cocky satisfaction.

"Are you seriously encouraging this idea of hers?" Veronica asks with horror.

Cheryl shrugs, reciting, "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie—"

"—which we ascribe to Heaven," Veronica interrupts impatiently, "this is not the time to quote Shakespeare and _All's Well That Ends Well_ might have appeared clever to you, but is in reality an ill fit for this situation."

"I'm going to climb it," Betty states decisively.

"I admire your bravery and moxie," Cheryl commends brightly, with a seemingly sincere smile. "Pain is temporary, while glory is forever."

"So is _death_ ," Veronica emphasizes cuttingly, sending Cheryl a threatening glare. "Death is pretty permanent, too."

"That cabinet is barely taller than I am," Betty insists, already pulling a chair towards it.

Bewildered by the events developing before her, Veronica turns to Cheryl with exasperation. “You’re seriously agreeing with this plan?”

“I believe you’re unnecessarily adversarial at the moment,” Cheryl responds seriously, “likely due to your tensions with her.” Veronica groans, glancing in Betty’s direction with dismay and finding her already lining up the chair against the cabinet. “As an objective, uninvolved party, I posit that you should find a less galling manner with which to convince her to stay put.”

This is the most annoyed Veronica has ever felt in her entire life, she thinks. “Can I place any hope in you ever treating Betty and I as the merely platonic friends that we are?”

Cheryl’s amused chuckle coats her in further aggravation. “Unless you're thinking of building a time machine and going back in time to unsleep with Cooper, I don't think so.”

By now, Betty is standing on the chair and carefully surveying what she can see of the top of the cabinet.

“I’m cognizant of your conflicting emotions, but we should help her climb that,” Cheryl suggests calmly. “You of course are most appropriate, as you have already been in close proximity to her… nether regions.” Veronica shoots her a deadly glower and then sighs in resignation, in disbelief that she’s going to assist her best friend in performing a potentially dangerous action. “Gosh, this is so much fun. Why didn’t you sleep with her sooner? I could have been doing this _months_ ago.”

Acknowledging that her tolerance for Cheryl’s light-hearted mockery has reached a limit, Veronica makes her way to Betty, still standing on the chair, and inquires sullenly, “do you need help?”

Betty gives her a hesitant smile and then takes her hand gently. “Yeah. I do.”

A minute later, Veronica and Cheryl are supporting part of Betty’s weight by holding her foot, while she swings the rest of her body on top of the cabinet. Veronica is moderately surprised, though pleased, when Betty does manage to get to the top, announcing, “oh there’s another empty classroom outside this window, on the other side of this wall.” 

Then her contentment mutates into anguish when Betty forcefully pushes open the window and promptly falls out through the opening, landing onto the other side with an audible thud. Her heart halts midbeat and she looks at Cheryl with shared anxiety.

“Betty! Are you okay?” Veronica calls out, as loudly as she can manage. She’s prompted by the lack of response to advance toward the chair herself, but Cheryl seizes her hand and holds her in place.

“How are you planning on climbing that? Your girlfriend is much taller than either one of us,” the redhead points out. Just then, their attention is gripped by a fidgeting sound from the door.

The door bursts open, Betty standing on the other side—holding her forearm with a pained wince, bleeding gash crisscrossing her forehead. Cheryl’s mouth hangs agape and Veronica rushes to the blond girl with panic.

“Oh my God, Betty, we need to get you to—”

“I’m fine,” Betty reassures weakly, leaning against Veronica’s embrace in a worryingly unsteady manner. “I really am. I’m…”

Betty trails off, and promptly faints in her arms.

-

“Do you not know how to cross a street?” Veronica snaps when Cheryl almost leads them into traffic. They are carrying Betty’s unconscious body across the school’s parking lot, each holding an arm, towards the infirmary building. The girl is visibly struggling with the effort and is about to fire off an undoubtedly indignant reply, but Veronica is quick to add heatedly, “but no worries; this is how I’ve always wanted Betty and I to die—via vehicular manslaughter.”

Once they arrive at the infirmary, the school nurse swiftly arranges for transportation to an actual hospital, and it’s only Cheryl’s strangely comforting arm around her shoulder that prevents Veronica from doubling over with devastation. She should have made more persistent attempts to stop her, she could have thwarted this.

Betty’s mother arrives at the hospital and proceeds to consult a legal expert on suing the school for endangerment while simultaneously chiding both girls for allowing Betty to undertake such reckless action. They soon find that Betty’s fall resulted in a concussion and a sprained elbow, in addition to the more obvious laceration on her forehead, but that her injuries are not serious and she’s expected to make a full recovery in a few days. Veronica feels positively light-headed and nearly nauseous with relief.

By the time Alice Cooper permits Veronica and Cheryl to see Betty, Kevin has already joined them in the hospital (having found out about the incident through his father, on duty at the neighboring sheriff station), and they are informed that Betty is still very much sedated and that hospital policies have limited their visit to ten minutes.

Cheryl and Kevin enter the room with worry but enthusiasm, while Veronica pauses by the doorway, taking in the sight of Betty on the hospital bed, immobile and bandaged, a cast featured prominently around her left arm.

It won’t matter, will it? It won't matter how many mouths kiss hers, how many hands touch her, how many voices whisper in her ear and say her name, her heart is never going to beat this way for anyone else. 

She approaches Betty’s bedside, standing between the other two already talking to the girl, and Betty, who had been dazedly watching Kevin, turns to her immediately.

“I can see your tattoo,” she slurs with an unfocused smile.

Veronica stiffens with the unexpected statement. “What? No, you can’t.”

Cheryl instantly inserts herself into the conversation with a scandalized shock. “You have a tattoo?”

“I can see it with my x-ray vision,” Betty laughs, the sound muddled by her less-than-full control of her faculties. “Get it? Because they gave me an x-ray.”

Oh my God. 

It’s like whiplash, the feeling of realizing how differently this scene is unfolding from how she had anticipated. Veronica opens her mouth to divert the conversation to some other topic, but Betty is quite intently focused on her chest area and…

“You have a tattoo on your boob?” Kevin inquires with morbid curiosity, while Cheryl mirrors his fascination and joins him in examining that portion of her body.

Embarrassment overtakes her body like a tsunami wave. “Um, no… it’s under it. On my ribcage,” she explains timidly, practically perspiring with awkwardness.

“I left a hickey there!” Betty’s victorious declaration startles all three, and Veronica fleetingly wonders whether she can die from cringing.

“And it probably is still there,” Cheryl quips unabashedly, eyes roving Veronica's neck, upon which is a mark she has long given up on concealing, “given that all the other ones in visible areas still are.”

“Wait…” Kevin murmurs, eyes alternating between Betty and Veronica.

Oh, shit. Kevin doesn’t know.

“Cheryl, do you mind leaving us alone for a moment?” 

The redhead is barely out of earshot when Kevin abruptly turns to her with ill-concealed, angry indignation. “Did you and Betty…”

Veronica swallows down a boulder-sized lump in her throat. “Yes, we did.”

“YOU SLEPT TOGETHER AND GINGER POL POT KNEW ABOUT IT BEFORE I DID??”

She’s rendered momentarily speechless, aghast with the volume of his outburst. “Kevin, do you want to yell that a little louder? Maybe the people in the building across the street didn’t hear you.”

A protesting Kevin turns to Betty, still oscillating in consciousness. “Your first time was with a _girl_ —who looks like _Veronica Lodge_ —you left a hickey on her thigh, and you didn’t tell me any of this?”

A nurse pokes her head inside the room to remind helpfully that they only have five more minutes, and fueled by the announcement, Veronica gently begins to push Kevin in the direction of the door. “Let me have a few minutes with her and I promise I’ll fill you in on what I can,” she promises, and the boy grumpily acquiesces.

Now alone with Betty, Veronica stands at the bedside with her heart beating almost painfully quickly, eyes sweeping the careless, helpless girl in front of her. There will never be any denying that Betty’s face is truly magnificent, and neither the bandages nor the smaller scrapes can take away from this.

“Betty, I’m so sorry I let this happen.”

“I can’t… move my arm,” Betty mumbles, staring down at her arm as though it were a foreign object attached to her body. “I think I broke it. Trying to get Veronica… out of Guantanamo. Do you know her? She’s my best friend.”

Veronica makes a mental note to inquire later on the strength of whichever drugs Betty is under. “Yes, I know her. I am her.”

“No way!” Betty nods blearily in her direction. “I was just talking about you.”

With an internal sigh of hopelessness, Veronica carefully traces the lines and corners of Betty’s hand. “Am I still your best friend? You don’t hate me?”

Betty’s gaze is so unfocused that Veronica knows she has only a few remaining moments of consciousness.

“I miss you,” Betty mumbles lethargically, eyes cloudy. 

Veronica wards off a fresh wound on her heart. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

“And I want to kiss you,” Betty slurs slowly, so strangely solemn that in other circumstances, Veronica would have been well-equipped to find humor. “Like all the time. _Allllllll_ the time.”

The world settles back into the sound of birds and horns in the distance, and the periodic beeps from the vital signs monitor beside them.

With the panic and frustration that had been woven into the fabric of her body during the day now gone, Veronica reverts back to her default state. The Veronica who would do anything for Betty; truly, anything. Sometimes her love for Betty emboldens her to be the person she wants to be. Sometimes her love for Betty doesn’t even let her breathe.

“When this wears off…” Veronica soothes and mends her own insecurities so she can say what she needs to say, even if Betty is practically unconscious with sedatives, and won’t recall any of this. “When this wears off, and you’re back to normal… if you want to kiss me, you can. Come find me. I’ll wait for you, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end :) Thank you for sticking around so far and lending me such awesome support and encouragement. I truly have no way to thank everyone.
> 
> p.s. While writing this, i realized that either Cheryl is not in the same year as Betty and Veronica (sophomores) or she is, and Polly dated a guy two years her junior? If anyone would like to discuss this, I am very intrigued.
> 
> p.p.s. I have in fact been accidentally locked and forgotten in my high school's detention classroom, and writing about it was enormous fun.
> 
> p.p.p.s. If you haven't seen a picture of Camila Mendes' tattoo, do yourself a favor and look that up and then let me know so we can swoon together.


	9. Spin #3, Pt. I

_“Wait, what shape is the light? Do you remember?”_  
_“Did you really stop kissing me to ask about an engine light?”_  
_“It could be something serious, V. You’re learning how to drive in that car.”_  
_“Fine… I think it looked like an upside-down triangle.”_  
_“Oh, I think it’s the car oil. It probably needs to be changed.”_  
_“I’ll let Smithers know, so he can make arrangements in a local car shop.”_  
_“I know someone who can change your oil, if you want.”_  
_“You know someone?”_  
_“Yes, and so do you. You’re looking at her.”_  
_“I thought I was looking at a girl who is completely naked, straddling me while we discuss the truly riveting topic of engine lights, not someone who is a skilled mechanic.”_  
_“Novice mechanic. And don’t judge a book by its cover.”_  
_“Or lack of cover.”_  
_“Or that.”_

\--

On Tuesday night, Betty is discharged from the hospital and instructed to return to regular activity on Friday, with a follow-up (to remove her cast and further test her recovery from a concussion) scheduled for Saturday. As her mother signs the release paperwork, Betty glumly awaits her in the spartan, sterile lobby, absentmindedly fidgeting with her sling while surveying the nighttime view of Riverdale afforded her by an extensive glass window. 

She was born in this town; she grew up here. Everyone's always been here; everyone and everything has always been the same. Until Jason's death. And until Veronica's arrival.

Despite Betty's best efforts, there’s no way to avoid her mind’s natural trek down the well-trodden path of reminiscing about Veronica. She’s been seesawing between sleep and reality during the entirety of today; dreaming of Veronica whenever she closed her eyes, and thinking of her whenever she woke. And as she’s reminded of this inevitability, she almost groans, because she hates it. 

Betty can literally split her life into a before and after of meeting and befriending Veronica, and now the girl is such a constant presence in Betty's conscience that it’s like her brain has been wired into an endless loop, and no matter where her thoughts and plans and ideas begin, or where she tries to lead them, Betty ends up back in the same place—Veronica Lodge. The girl might as well be with her even when she's not with her at all, as though she’s built-in to every feeling Betty generates, as though she were weaved through each of her memories, as though she's the marrow in Betty's bones.

She’s aware that she needs to talk to Veronica. To sort things out, to make things clearer in this haze of miscommunication. At the same time, the fact that this is her best friend only makes the prospect more daunting. Each of their arguments has gotten progressively worse than the last, and doesn’t every friendship have some kind of threshold for the amount of hurtful things you can say before its binding strands are permanently severed? She reminds herself not to be dramatic, to reason her way through this quandary, but the mere idea of losing Veronica already feels as though the axis of her life has been knocked lopsided.

The thought of not having Veronica around, of not having any of this anymore—no one who will push her to face the things she fears, no one to talk her into watching a documentary about Tennessee Williams (for no other reason than "Streetcar! Named! Desire!"), no one she can text a picture of a B-graded assignment to, who will text her back "obviously your genius continues to be under-appreciated," no one who will see the worst parts of her and truly know her, but like her anyway, and always believe her and believe the best of her—the thought terrifies her unlike anything else. Out of all the things she became this year—Vixen cheerleader, writer for the _Blue and Gold_ , a braver person—her favorite is Veronica’s best friend.

And yes, Betty’s feelings run much deeper than merely friendship, but every time her mind wanders towards the not-quite-platonic realm, she remembers the last time she liked a friend.

( _“I’m asking you now—right now—if you love me, Archie. Or even like me?”_ )

Last time she did that, she loved the person much less (and, as it turned out, in a starkly different way), and the rejection still burned her enough that she felt the sting of the scald for weeks.

Clearly, her priority here is to mend the rift in their friendship—trying to be anything more to Veronica seems dishearteningly distant at this point—and yes, she’s been occasionally impulsive these past few weeks, but if there was ever a time to revert back to her usual sensible, practical self, this is it. 

“Betty," her mother calls from the hospital counter, equal parts stern and tender, "let’s go home.”

As Betty expected, Alice Cooper does not budge in her grounding restrictions: Betty remains deprived of any internet or cellphone access until Friday. It’s exactly what Betty expected, as the circumstances behind her sprained arm are not exactly the finest example of good behavior, but she still can’t help the nauseating wave of frustration that overcomes her.

Very early Wednesday morning, the Coopers receive notice that Polly is missing from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy and that law enforcement authorities have been notified. A feverish, heartache-inducing fight erupts in the household; Betty watches with painful anxiety as her parents take turns placing blame on one another for Polly's escape, their screamed accusations reverberating through the walls with increasingly sharp aggression. Alice Cooper seems especially remorseful for their decision to essentially lock away their daughter as a response to Polly's refusal to submit to an abortion or agree to surrender the child to an adoption agency. And it's just as the ugliest secrets begin to spill and track a bloody trail of freshly-revealed lies, that Hal Cooper storms out of the house, leaving an angry, tearful Alice behind, and Betty still struggling to digest everything she's just discovered.

An hour later, Polly appears at their doorstep, still clad in the prim, exaggeratedly modest dress she had worn as a uniform at Quiet Mercy, backlit by a dawning sun bestowing upon her an almost otherworldly radiance. And before either Alice or Betty can recover from their shared flabbergasted shock, Polly promptly declares with unwavering conviction that she _will_ have Jason's child, and that she _will_ keep it and raise it, and that she returned to their residence to afford her family one more chance to accept her decision, or, if necessary, "to pack my things and move out."

In response, Alice Cooper rushes onto the doorway, pulls her elder daughter inside their home, and envelops her in a tight, emotional embrace. Betty doesn't notice her own tears until she gives Polly a hug of her own, and feels her sister gently wipe her cheeks.

“You’re going to tell me how you got your arm in a cast, right?” Polly chuckles fondly, and Betty almost fails to conjure the necessary words to answer her.

"You're back," Betty breathes out in ecstatic disbelief, warmed by Polly's beaming smile. "You're really back."

\--

 _“Wait, did you say they arrested Gloucester? Why?”_  
_“Because Edmund alleged that Gloucester is a traitor who supports the French invasion, and is conspiring to reinstate Lear in the throne.”_  
_“Oh, that’s right. I hate Edmund. This really is a depressing play.”_  
_“I haven’t gotten to Regan and Cornwall literally gouging out Gloucester’s eyes yet.”_  
_“Oh my God, Veronica; why didn’t you give me the gore advisory when you offered to talk about why you love Shakespeare?”_  
_“Because I wished for you to fully appreciate all of_ King Lear’s _twists and turns._ ”  
_“Well, consider them appreciated.”_

__

\--

The Cooper women spend the rest of Wednesday arranging for Polly's move back to their home; contacting the sheriff's department to call off their missing-person search, formalizing Polly's release from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, re-enrolling Polly into an accelerated program at Riverdale High to accommodate her late start and ensure her graduation, and, as it befalls almost solely on Alice, discussing the matter with a heated, fiercely exasperated Hal.

Betty would be much more devastated by her father's refusal to accept his daughter's decision if she weren't so elated with the fact that her sister is home at last. The empty, darkened room in front of which Betty has had to walk every morning will be occupied once again; the ever-willing ear and shoulder Betty has always counted on has returned. Betty's heart, previously gnawed to shreds by Polly's absence and her fight with Veronica, feels at least partially recovered. 

\--

_“I can’t believe I didn’t know you had a tattoo, V. We literally change together in the locker room.”_  
_“In all fairness, my locker is on your right so this side of my body is usually facing away from you. And it’s not as if we’ve ever gone swimming or that I’ve really told anyone. In fact, you’re the first person to actually see it.”_  
_“Really? Like, in the whole world?”_  
_“I got it the day before I moved here. I was thinking about how New York was my home and I was about to leave it to come here. And then I really thought about it, and I realized that home is inside of me. I am my home. And if I could stick with this idea, then I could live in a hundred different places and would always be home.”_  
_“I hadn’t thought of home not being a location.”_  
_“I think home should be a person. Yourself, or someone else, to whom you are also home.”_

\--

On Thursday morning, Archie drops off some of the week’s homework, and the remainder of the day is consumed by Betty’s efforts to complete every overdue essay and assignment, with special attention to a Biology test scheduled for the next day. She relishes the homework-induced pressure, because it’s a nice break from witnessing Polly’s courageous efforts to conceal the enormous emotional load that is her grief for Jason’s death and simultaneous optimism planted in the prospect of raising their child. 

At random times of the morning, Betty wonders idly why Veronica hasn’t visited her. She can understand why, sort of—her mother is intimidating and staunchly anti-Lodge, and Veronica might still be hanging on to some resentment after their disagreements on Monday. But it’s still odd that Veronica hasn’t even made an effort to see her, and Betty has to force herself into not panicking, into not overthinking this.

This same persistent thought occurs to her again that evening after dinner, however, as her mother and Polly are in the kitchen, continuing their discussion of Polly’s future, and Betty receives a visit from Kevin and Jughead, two friends she truly loves and appreciates but who are not… quite the person she’s most wanted to see.

"It's so weird to see your sister back," Kevin comments brightly, motioning to the wall inside Betty's room that borders Polly's own. "Like, in a good way. This is amazing news."

Betty wonders fleetingly what Veronica’s reaction to Polly’s return would be, being aware of how deeply Betty had wished for it. And then she lowers her head sadly, because if she never repairs her fractured friendship with Veronica, this will be the extent of their relationship from now on; imagined scenarios of conversations she wishes she were having with her.

Jughead nods in smiling agreement, then clears his throat and asks with careful reluctance, "and how are the Blossoms taking the pregnancy news?"

An uncomfortable Betty shifts on her seat, because this is one of the facets of this situation with which she isn’t too familiar. "From what my mom said, they're happy. They want to be involved in raising the child."

"That seems..." Jughead trails off, exchanging a look with a frowning Kevin.

"Too good to be true?" Betty poses tiredly, well aware of the concerns that naturally stem from anything involving the Blossoms. "Yeah, I agree. But apparently they just really believe that this is the last piece of Jason they can still have."

Kevin settles back into the bed after a few silent moments, trading a grin with Jughead, who adjusts his beanie and remarks wryly, "I'm not sure Riverdale High and its gossip mill will be ready to have both Cooper sisters back tomorrow."

"It'll be positively scandalous, having Polly come back carrying the progeny of Riverdale’s redheaded Lannisters," Kevin agrees, uncapping a marker and pointing to her arm with his chin. "And last time anyone saw you, you were being hauled away by paramedics so talk around town has already been pretty juicy." He examines her cast from a distance and inquires, "which illustrious location on your cast have you reserved for me to sign?"

She’s already disclosed that her cast will be removed on Saturday so any creative marks by her friends won’t remain on her arm for very long, but that doesn’t seem to damper his enthusiasm. “A square inch behind the elbow, or something prestigious like that,” she taunts, dodging the pen’s cap with a grin when it flies in her direction. 

“Great; now she’s got a sprained arm and was almost blinded in one eye—way to go, Kev,” Jughead admonishes pointedly, only barely concealing a laugh.

“I should have guessed you’d save the prime real estate for Veronica,” Kevin teases. On reflex, her eyes widen with the instant, panicked remembrance that unless Cheryl has decided to share with the world her recent discovery of Betty and Veronica's un-platonic dealings, Jughead doesn't know about them. Kevin immediately clamps his mouth shut with alarm, indicating that he's just pieced together the same realization, and so it's only Jughead who remains unaffected, laid-back and oblivious to the Veronica-shaped elephant in the room.

And Betty would not mind, at all, having Jughead—and Archie, for that matter—privy to this secret, except that they are both friends to Veronica as well, and Betty isn’t sure she’s at complete liberty to disclose anything without Veronica’s blessing.

"Anyway," Kevin blurts, shooting her an apologetic wince as he swiftly changes the subject, "Jug, you mentioned that you had to update Betty on some school newspaper thing?"

Pulling out a notebook from a small backpack, Jughead flips a couple of pages and begins to list; "I finished the feature on the Bulldogs' upcoming game against Greendale Saturday night... I talked to the cafeteria manager about the bout of food poisoning from last week—would you be able to edit please? It'll go on next week's issue." Betty nods immediately, making a mental note of the task. Jughead turns another page on his notebook, and it's as if Betty foresees it before Jughead even says it; from the edge of her memories she hears a whispered reminder of this month's Meet Your Fellow Student column, and the interviewee selected for it. Her throat begins to close with a rapidly-growing lump, and she holds her breath instinctively. "And I also did the interview with Veronica for our student feature column for this month. I knew you had planned on doing it this week but wasn't sure whether you'd be back to school in time and she and I were already working on our government project together, so I figured I'd do it, and am going to transcribe it tonight. Oh, and I finished my op-ed about the city's spending on—"

Betty interrupts him unthinkingly, needing clarification despite her own panic and inner turmoil, ignoring Kevin's questioning glances. "Just a sec, Jug. How... did the interview with Veronica go?"

Jughead shrugs indifferently, and Betty downright envies his unawareness of the entire situation and consequent detachment from this development. "The usual. What you'd expect from an interview with her. Our last profile was on a member of the football team so at least this month we have some actual noticeable brain activity behind the responses."

It's a little bit like desperation, the need to have some kind of contact with Veronica, even if it's not real, even if it's one-sided. "You know, I can transcribe it if you want," she offers breathlessly, straining with the effort to sound nonchalant and ignore Kevin's double-take. "It just seems like you have a lot on your hands, and it'd be nice to help."

In stark contrast to Kevin, whose amused, exaggerated surprise is clearly telling her that they're going to be discussing this once they're alone, Jughead is brightening with appreciation. "You sure? I told her she was on the schedule to be interviewed by you but you couldn't make it because of your bedrest." When Betty purses her lips and nods again with a forced smile, Jughead hands her his old-fashioned tape recorder ("you do know your phone can record things, right?" "I can't afford to have records of my investigations hacked, Betty; I have to keep my findings safe from corporate and government greed"), and Betty grips it with a leaping heart.

Alice chooses to drop in at that moment and politely reminds the boys that not only is tomorrow a school day, but will be her daughters' return to it as well, and she would like them to sleep at a reasonable hour. Betty has never been more grateful for parental intrusion, and as soon as she's bid her friends goodbye and sped through her bedtime preparations, Betty plugs in her headphones and presses play.

_**[JUGHEAD]: Sorry—I don't usually do this feature; it's usually Betty. You were on schedule for this month but I have no idea when she'll be out of bedrest.** _

When Veronica's voice flows through her ears, Betty is almost startled, as though she’s being awakened from a deep slumber. This is a voice that encircles and warms her like sunlight, a voice her heart knows, a voice she can pick up even amid the tumult of a crowd; she would hear it even if surrounded by thunderstorms or the riotous noise of her own fears.

**_[VERONICA]: That's fine, Jug. So how does this work? I know you guys have the students send the questions in through the hashtag. Did you already choose the questions?_ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: I picked a few; then we'll go through the Blue and Gold's Twitter account and maybe pick some others, and publish the ones you like._ **

There's a pause; some rustling in the background, which Betty guesses are from papers being shuffled.

**_[JUGHEAD]: All right, first question. If you could be anyone for a day, who would you choose? I apologize in advance for the unoriginality you'll be enduring throughout this exercise._ **

**_[VERONICA]: This question is deceptively simple, I think. For superficial reasons, I'd love to be Betty for a day, because of course, who wouldn't want to look like that._ **

Betty's heart rate quickens immediately at the mention of her name, more so than at the actual compliment.

**_[VERONICA]: But if I could pick anyone in history, then probably Susan B. Anthony._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: That's a very inspired answer. Second question. How did the River Vixen vice-captainship thing come about?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Really? Who sent that question?_ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: The handle is @JessTeag._ **

**_[VERONICA]: Oh, right. Jessica. She's from the squad. I guess this a question on many a person's mind. I'd say it was a combination of factors. I was prompted by certain events to consider the position. And I was faced with a... curious dynamic with Cheryl Blossom, wherein it seemed like I would either become her vice-captain, or quit altogether, no détente in sight._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: A curious dynamic?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Of the unstoppable force, immovable object kind._ **

Unprompted, her mind flitters back to Monday and the last time she spoke to Veronica; the girl’s exasperation at Betty’s unyielding belief that Veronica and Cheryl are friends despite the latter’s tumultuous history with Betty. With an inner grunt, she pushes that aside to focus on the interview.

**_[JUGHEAD]: A fair characterization. I'm going to apologize for this question as well, as I know how simplistic it is. What is your favorite book?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: From what genre? Period? Language?_ **

Upon hearing Veronica’s shared laughter with Jughead, Betty realizes she missed the sound and its melodic quality so much that she almost rewinds the recording to re-hear it. She smiles as she pictures the two exchanging a bonding look reinforced by all their common knowledge and tastes, and pauses the audio to riffle through her memories and determine whether Veronica has ever mentioned having a favorite book. 

It's either something from Truman Capote or Oscar Wilde—that much she knows. Then, a single sentence bursts into her mind, delivered with a distracted grin and the warmth of a joke. 

_"Why age when you can have a portrait do it for you?"_

She squints in no particular direction, now asking herself, is it _The Picture of Dorian Gray_?

Betty presses play, overcome by a stupidly-fervent hope that she's right; that she's as close to Veronica as she's always imagined that she is. She acknowledges needing some kind of reassurance at the moment, that even with the current wide gulf between them, Betty is still the one who knows her best.

**_[VERONICA]: I want on the record that this is a terrible question, but I will respond nonetheless. I guess I'd have to say that my most immediate answer is_ The Picture of Dorian Gray.**

Betty happily high-fives herself, tingling with the rush of victory.

**_[JUGHEAD]: This is just a question for me, since we seem to possess a similar literary taste... what book are you currently reading?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Um. So when you say that it's a question from you, does that mean it's off the record? No one will be privy to the answer aside from you? It won't be published?_ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: As I'm the sole staff on duty at the Blue and Gold, and can redact any content you don't approve—as this is not an expose, just a feature—yes, you are correct._ **

**_[VERONICA]: All right, then. The book I'm reading at the moment is quite... my more pretentious side would have found it pedestrian._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Please don't tell me you're reading a_ Twilight _novel._**

**_[VERONICA]: Jug, do not use a guessing opportunity as a window for insult._ **

Betty chuckles and listens to Jughead laughing with ease.

**_[VERONICA]: I'm reading an entry in the Nancy Drew series._ **

Betty feels something reach from her headphones to squeeze her heart, gently but steadfastly.

**_[JUGHEAD]: That is quite a departure for you, I'm sure._ **

**_[VERONICA]: It has its charm._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Inspirational figure?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: On my good days, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. On my bad days, Napoleon Bonaparte._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Is it the height?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Et tu, Brutus? Yes, they are two “vertically-challenged” figures. And I am surrounded by people whose height privilege has made them insensitive to the plight of the short folk. Clearly, I need new friends._ **

Jughead's laugh is louder and freer now, and Betty finds herself glad that this interview provided an opportunity for interaction between Veronica and the one member of their circle she had not yet had a chance to completely win over.

**_[JUGHEAD]: Favorite color?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Are these seriously the questions people have sent?_ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Yep. And my apology still stands._ **

**_[VERONICA]: It changes, in accordance with season, context, and my mood. But lately, it's been blue._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: What is one fact that people don't know about you?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: What people don't know about me is that I'm a terrible cook._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: I'm surprised you cook at all. Don’t you have people to do it for you?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Well, I did. But I_ have _cooked. With varying degrees of success._**

**_[JUGHEAD]: And what's the last thing you cooked?_ **

Betty stills, anticipating the answer with an apprehension that seizes the air from her lungs in a way she doesn't understand.

**_[VERONICA]: Is that... a question from the list?_ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: No, a question from me. Just wondering what a former member of Manhattan royalty can cook._ **

She made pancakes for her (banana and chocolate), then told her she could have anyone she wanted. And then Betty kissed her because the person she wanted, and will always want, is Veronica. 

**_[VERONICA]: Pancakes. I made pancakes._ **

For the first time since she began listening to this recording, Betty considers stopping. She's not an objective party in this profile—she has actual feelings for the interviewee and some investment in the answers, and she remembers reading about impartiality and its importance to effective journalism. She didn't conduct the interview, but Jughead is expecting her to transcribe and edit it for publication. Most of all, the longer she listens to Veronica answer these questions, the lower her sorrowful heart sinks into her stomach. She misses her so much.

**_[JUGHEAD]: Favorite place in Riverdale?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: Pop's._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Least favorite?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: The river. It's terrifying. And not solely due to the latest corpse findings._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: These next few questions... some sleuthing on my part has led me to find that Reggie Mantle created a variety of fake handles on Twitter to be able to send a couple of interesting questions under the guise of anonymity. Still want to answer them?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: This is going to be hilarious, I can tell._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: It'll be like you're building your profile on Riverdale Singles Ready to Mingle dot com._ **

**_[VERONICA]: Fire away._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: What is your idea of a perfect date?_ **

Betty rolls her eyes with displeasure—of course Reggie Mantle is still interested in Veronica, despite her sound rejection at his own party. 

There is a pause. It's only a few beats long, but it's long enough that it makes her curious to know whether Veronica was giving away any signs of nervousness, and Betty wishes this interview had been video recorded instead.

**_[VERONICA]: My perfect date... I think I've had it already, so unfortunately Reggie is late to the game on this. I took my favorite person to my favorite place. And it was great. That's all I can really say about that._ **

( _“This is my favorite part of the city.”_ )

Betty blinks away a momentary blurriness in her vision; smothers every impulse flaring anew to turn the recorder off. 

**_[JUGHEAD]: Veronica Lodge, woman of mystery._ **

**_[VERONICA]: Form an orderly queue, ladies and gents._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Next question... what would you say is the way to your heart?_ **

**_[VERONICA]: You were not kidding about building a dating profile._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: Reggie is defined by his persistence._ **

Veronica's tone throughout the interview has been relaxed, if amused and surprised for brief intervals. But when she speaks up again, its quality has changed subtly—darkened somewhat. And Betty picks up on this shift just as she realizes that Jughead most likely did not.

**_[VERONICA]: Obviously everyone has aspects of their character and personality on which they are working. I feel like I'm a long way still from where I'd like to be. The person who got my heart looks at me like I'm already there._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: I think we have sufficient material, unless you’d like to go through the hashtag for additional questions._ **

**_[VERONICA]: I’d rather not provide Reggie with any more information about my dating preferences._ **

**_[JUGHEAD]: A wise choice. The next question, from user @WeggiePantle, would have been whether you like to split bills on a first date._ **

The audio stops then, after capturing the briefest snippet of a laugh from Veronica. 

Betty stares at the recorder, mind filled with only the lingering echoes of Veronica’s voice, mingling with traces of her own thoughts. When she met Veronica, her heart and her mind began having a sort of conversation about the girl, and then never stopped. It still hasn’t stopped. It occurs to Betty suddenly that if she never repairs their damaged friendship, she’ll have to go back to who she was before Veronica came along; she’ll have to unlearn all the things Veronica’s told her about the world, all the things Veronica’s showed her about herself. She will have to go back to being the Betty she was a second before Veronica walked into Pop’s and made her first joke about Truman Capote. 

She glances outside her window, to a sky within which the stars are sobering, perhaps to match her mood.

She rewinds the recording, and presses play once again; lets Veronica's voice and laugh lull her into sleep, and dozes off just as Veronica is stating wistfully, _“I took my favorite person to my favorite place. And it was great.”_

\--

_“I think I’d like to go to New York again.”_  
_“Really? Any places in particular?”_  
_“I want to eat that banana pudding again.”_  
_“Magnolia Bakery; got it.”_  
_“And I want to go somewhere I can see the skyline at night.”_  
_“Empire State Building; got it.”_  
_“And I want… to go to the Statue of Liberty.”_  
_“Oh…?”_  
_“You should see your face right now.”_  
_“How does it look?”_  
_“Like that time we made you buy things from a garage sale.”_

\--

On Friday morning, Betty and Polly barely make it to their respective first period classes on time, as Polly and Hal became embroiled in yet another argument midway through breakfast. As a result, the first person Betty has any contact with once she’s settled into her seat in History is Cheryl Blossom, who rises from her front-row desk to make her way to Betty and ask with a suspiciously non-threatening smile, “was your girlfriend late again this morning?” Betty’s eyebrows are raised as an involuntary response, and Cheryl continues without as much of a breathing pause, “I was unable to locate her prior to this period's commencement, and am in need of her counsel.”

Cheryl would never initiate any contact with Betty without a wish to rile or annoy, so despite feeling as though she’s being baited (and very effectively, given the mention of Veronica), Betty sighs and responds unemotionally, “I haven’t seen her either, and can’t you just wait till 2nd period to talk to her?” Instantly, Cheryl brightens into a knowing smirk and Betty releases an inward groan, before correcting herself morosely. “I mean, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Of course,” Cheryl agrees, with a patronizing nod that wordlessly provokes Betty. “AP English it is.”

By her second period Statistics class, Betty’s temper has been mostly assuaged through a light-hearted conversation with Archie, and even the discovery that he is Veronica’s date to the dance that evening is a relief, rather than a bother—in the most anxiety-ridden parts of her mind, she had wondered whether Veronica had been pissed off enough with her on Monday to arrange to go to the dance with Cheryl Blossom. And when she reaches third period and spends the entire hour thoroughly engrossed in editing the next issue of the _Blue and Gold_ with Jughead, Betty is thankful for the distractions she’s been afforded from her impending confrontation with Veronica—presumably during fourth period—looming in the horizon.

Betty had agreed to lead Polly through a brief tour of Riverdale during their lunch period, if only to update her on the latest goings-on of the school. And it’s while they are turning from the courtyard area to the scarcely-populated main hallway, and as Betty is excitedly recounting her journalistic breakthroughs on the newspaper, that Polly halts mid-step, frowning gaze trained somewhere behind Betty.

“Do the Vixens have a vice-captain now?”

The question jolts Betty much like electricity coursing through her muscles; her body twitches with dread when she catches sight of Veronica, carefully stacking books inside her locker, clad in what looks like a new version of their cheerleading uniform, squad letterman jacket prominently embroidered with “VICE BIC” in the back.

The rapidly-developing catastrophe renders Betty immobile, unable to react in time and stop her sister when she takes the first step in Veronica’s direction, greeting brightly when she reaches her, “hi, how are you? I’m Polly Cooper.”

Oh my God… oh my fuckin—

Veronica’s mouth drops open just slightly when she takes in the figure in front of her and the significant pregnancy bump, and she throws a profoundly perplexed, questioning look in Betty’s direction, who finally jumps into action and rushes to Polly’s side, mind flooded by panic— _no no no no no no_ this is not how they were supposed to meet—

“Hi,” Veronica greets stiltedly, extending her hand for a handshake while darting her eyes once again to a cringing, morbidly embarrassed Betty, who is dumbfounded now as to why she never found time in the past 24 hours to at least mention Veronica to Polly and prevent the trainwreck unfolding before her. “Veronica Lodge.”

Polly is gracious and pleasant, apparently blind to the anvil-sized cloud of discomfort settled firmly between them, and speaks before Betty has a chance to intervene. “I’m sorry; I don’t want to keep you. I used to be part of the Vixens, and when I last was with the squad, Cheryl was very, um, _territorial_ about leadership positions and hadn’t picked a vice-captain. I saw your uniform and your title in the back, and thought I’d say hi.”

Betty knows she’s not blinking, not breathing, and certainly not producing any coherent or remotely useful thoughts—in all the scattered scenarios her mind is coming up with to course-correct this disaster of a meeting between her sister and Veronica, none of them are even haphazardly acceptable. There is no way she can salvage this situation by actually telling the truth right now; hey Polly, this is my best friend Veronica, whom I literally have never mentioned to you, and by the way, I slept with her last week.

“I’m guessing you know my sister Betty from the squad?” Polly continues, in an effortlessly charming manner that could not be more opposed to what Betty knows is her own look of terror; yes, Veronica definitely knows her— _really, really_ well at that. The same thought seems to cross Veronica’s mind, indicated by a single quirk of an eyebrow. “What year are you in? And are you new to Riverdale? I’ve never seen you.”

Because she’s always been able to read Veronica so well, Betty is aware that the girl in front of her is still baffled with disbelief and uncertainty, probably realizing now that Polly, despite being Betty’s sister, truly does not know anything about her. But to Polly, or anyone outside the scope of their familiarity, Veronica is betraying only the slightest bit of surprise. “I’m a sophomore. And yes, I do know Betty.” Veronica gives them an affable—and clearly forced—smile while Betty is about a thousand percent sure her legs or lungs will give out at any moment, and she will faint. “I’m from New York, originally,” Veronica explains further, clearing her throat. “But my parents are from here, and I transferred to Riverdale this year.”

While they were growing up, Betty envied and simultaneously admired Polly’s easy confidence, in the way she could establish a friendly rapport with anyone she ever spoke to. Now, however, she hates it, because Polly is truly interested in carrying on this conversation while Betty has no greater wish at the moment than for some kind of divine deliverance in the form of a swift death.

“Oh, yes—the name does sound familiar.”

Veronica chuckles with a barely-perceptible shade of discomfort, remarking, “my last name usually only sounds familiar to those in-the-know on the scandals of Wall Street and disgraced families of Manhattan.”

With a light laugh and a general wave of her hand, a good-humored Polly dismisses Veronica’s assertion. “Well, I’m not meeting your last name. I’m meeting you. And it’s nice to meet you, Veronica.”

Please, Betty pleads to a non-specific deity, let this conversation end.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, too, Polly,” Veronica responds with another smile, noticeably more at ease, accompanied by a meaningful look shot in Betty’s direction. “I’ll leave you two to your lunch break. See you around.”

Barely a second passes after Veronica turns the corner and is then effectively out of earshot, when Polly turns to a recovering Betty—focused almost entirely on gathering her bearings and steadying her chaotic palpitations—with the widest, most self-assured grin she’s ever seen. Immediately, Betty freezes in place.

“That’s your girl.” Oh, shit. Betty blanches, heart dropping into her stomach. “That’s her, isn’t it? The girl you like? Veronica Lodge.” Betty perspires with intimidation in face of her sister’s knowing smirk. Yes, that's the girl. But this is not at all how she'd wanted her sister to find out, and—“You are not subtle, Betty. Please, promise me you won’t ever get a job where you have to lie for a living.”

Swallowing a heavy, nervous lump in her throat, Betty opens her mouth with hopes of confirming her sister’s statement without embarrassing herself further, but Polly appears endlessly entertained by her terror-induced reactions, and interjects with a laugh, “really, though? You hooked up with your vice-captain?"

At this, Betty’s mouth promptly begins to work again. "She wasn't that, yet.”

It didn’t seem possible before, but Polly’s grin stretches even wider and her widened eyes absolutely gleam with thrill. "Oh my God. I was _joking_. So you did sleep with her?"

Goddamn it. 

Her face seemingly ablaze, Betty diverts her eyes to a section of the ceiling and mumbles with mortification, “yeah, I did.” What a disgrace. Her sister met the girl she likes and it was a fiasco; Veronica must be at least a bit miffed that Polly didn’t even know she existed, much less that they are friends. “It, um, happened the night before I visited you at Quiet Mercy.”

“Why didn’t you talk about her after I got back?” Polly inquires, gently pulling Betty’s attention to her.

“Because…” Because of Jason. “Because I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

Frowning, Polly steps closer to her, and makes it so much harder for Betty to hide. “Why would it be a bother?”

Because of Jason.

“Because we’re… in a complicated situation right now.” With a curious raise of her eyebrow, Polly encourages her to elaborate, and Betty doesn’t know how to change the subject. “We had a fight—or, actually, more than one—and we haven’t had a chance to clear the air yet. And I didn’t want you to worry about me.”

Polly studies her carefully, and Betty is well-aware that her sister is noticing the hum of anxiety attached to every one of Betty’s heartbeats. Abruptly, Polly grabs her hand and leads her into an empty classroom, guiding her to take a seat while settling directly in front of her. “What happened? What did you guys fight about?”

“Polly…” Betty sighs reluctantly while smothering an impulse to run. “I don’t think I want to talk about this.”

“Is it because of Jason?” Immediately, Betty’s apprehensive gaze is locked onto Polly’s own, and she glimpses a quick flash of pain that readily disappears behind understanding and the supportive love she’s always leaned on. “I don’t want my loss to keep you from sharing things with me. It means a lot to me, that you trust me.” She reaches across the space separating them to touch her hand, thawing the outermost layer of Betty’s resistance. “It always makes me happy to hear about your life. I missed it when I was gone; I missed you telling me things, I missed our closeness—I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Betty mumbles, wanting to avoid her eyes, but hopelessly attentive to her sister’s sympathetic smile. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“To be honest, sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m home, yet.” There’s a faint longing in her voice, something heartbreakingly wistful, weighed by the shadow of someone who no longer exists. “Sometimes home is a person, you know?”

Betty winces; ignores a sharp pang in her chest, like a needle prickling her heart.

“So tell me,” Polly nudges her, lowering her voice and enveloping Betty with the gentle care of her words. “I want to know everything about this girl you’re in love with.”

And Betty complies. 

Betty tells her about Veronica’s crash-landing into Riverdale, and their meeting at Pop’s, and feeling like Veronica was this alien being who was already changing everything and everyone around her. She tells her about Veronica choosing her at school, and encouraging her to try out again for the Vixens, and fighting for her placement in the squad as though she cared more for Betty’s spot than her own. She tells Polly of Veronica’s closet incident with Archie, and her own subsequent confession of her feelings for the boy and being gently but firmly rejected, and Veronica literally flying over a cupcake from New York to apologize for the mess. She tells her about forgiving Veronica, about Chuck Clayton and Ethel Mugg’s hot tub, and Veronica sticking with her even after seeing a side of Betty that was so dark and terrible that Betty had tried to pretend it didn’t exist. She tells her about spending afternoons at The Pembrooke, finishing History homework while Veronica read Thomas Pynchon and asked her “how exactly does one obtain coupons?” She tells her about texting Veronica every morning before school and FaceTiming her every night before going to bed, and of building the sort of familiarity with Veronica’s mind that their thoughts and opinions sometimes seemed to criss-cross and merge like stitching. She tells her about having a vague, superficial awareness that she had started to rely on Veronica’s unshakeable belief in her to compensate for the moments in which she lacked self-esteem, and of feeling bolder and more confident solely because Veronica Lodge, the coolest girl in town, was her best friend. 

Her throat is raw and her voice uneven when she tells Polly of Veronica’s seven minutes in heaven with Cheryl, and of New York—of feeling like she had been carrying inside of her a love for Veronica that she hadn’t even noticed, and how terrifying it was to piece it all together without knowing what to do about it. She tells her about kissing Veronica in a closet at Reggie’s and being consumed by her feelings afterwards, like her love didn’t fit inside her body, and about having sex and never actually getting to tell Veronica that she’s in love with her. And then she cradles her face inside her hands and wants to cry when she tells Polly about fighting with Veronica, about feeling like her long-standing antagonism with Cheryl had spilled over into her dynamics with her, and how awful it was to wonder if Veronica would ever choose Cheryl over her. And how there’s some part of her that knows, without a doubt, that Veronica loves her, but isn’t at all sure whether she loves Betty the way Betty loves _her_.

“Betty?” It’s like a distant call, beckoning her from a depth of sadness that Betty can’t begin to measure or describe. “Do you want my advice on this?”

“Yeah. I do.”

\--

_“There’s a beach in Barcelona… the water and the sky are the bluest I’ve ever seen. And your eyes remind me of being there.”_

\--

She has some very clear instructions; directions she’s supposed to follow to mend things with Veronica, provided by someone she trusts. Yet none of these instructions addressed how she should deal with being partnered with Cheryl Blossom for their American Government project, which means that when the redhead sits down next to Betty in fourth period with the customary smug, superior grin, clad in the still-unfamiliar, brand new uniforms, every trace of built-up aggression Betty harbors towards the girl—that resentment that has been so steadily increasing all year and quadrupled when Veronica became her vice-captain—it’s all dangerously close to spilling over, even if ameliorated by the fact that Betty’s absence from school for the past week means that Cheryl has already completed most of the assignment.

Nevertheless, all of that is worsened, of course, by the fact that Veronica is also in this class, seated exactly two desks behind her. She chances a quick glance and observes her poring over several encyclopedia-sized books with Jughead. The professor splits the class into two groups that will alternate trips to the library. Veronica and Jughead happen to be in the group first slated for library time, and Betty releases an internal sigh of despondency that her own group is staying behind, in class, and she’s stuck enduring the torture that is being partnered with Cheryl Blossom.

“I have detected an alarming distance between you and Veronica,” Cheryl posits simply, ignoring Betty’s immediate eyeroll, “and it is my firm belief that you should attempt to mend things with her.”

Betty can’t gather enough energy to hide her contempt. “Cheryl, you’re literally the last person I would ever talk about this with,” she deadpans while they open their respective books to begin their assignment.

“The bonds we forged during our brief brush with juvenile delinquency via attempted truancy and subsequent stint in detention—” Betty groans dramatically, unable to cope with her tremendous misfortune, “—are stronger than you may acknowledge at the moment. Do you have a preference for which amendment you would like to present on?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Betty mutters darkly, now mildly aware that she’s never interacted with Cheryl with anything other than fearful submission. And yet, here she is, being openly flippant. Frustration feeds courage, apparently.

“Veronica’s absence from your life has clearly affected your disposition,” an unaffected Cheryl counters, not taking her eyes off a page of interest in her book. “And studies have shown that obvious emotional dissociation may be a sign of depression.” 

“Studies show that I don't care,” a particularly ticked off Betty replies, because she is not, in any way, shape, or form, going to discuss Veronica with Cheryl, of all people.

Cheryl appears almost entirely unperturbed by her response save for a mild nod of admiration, and fleetingly Betty wonders whether she’s been transported to an alternate dimension where Cheryl is nice, because come on, at least one insult should have been shot back by now. “Would you like to use Delacroix’s painting of Liberty as our cover image?” the girl asks, holding up a page with the mentioned image.

“Not particularly…” Isn’t this a French painting? What does that have to do with their Constitutional amendments? Doesn’t Cheryl have the highest GPA in the school? How could she not know— 

A beaming Cheryl smirks in what appears to be good humor, and an alarm blares inside Betty’s mind, because this can’t mean anything good. “Is it because Liberty’s disrobed appearance resembles Veronica’s nudity?”

Oh. It’s a joke. A terrible, terrible stab at a joke. From _Cheryl_.

Betty is half impressed, half annoyed—still completely caught off-guard by Cheryl’s civility in her ill attempt at humor. She shoots back acidly, without thinking, “that’s for me to know and for you to imagine,” and then immediately cringes, because this is it—this will be that last straw that will remind Cheryl that she’s actually a heinous, vindictive creature from hell, who will then unleash her unique cocktail of cruelty and arrogance in a flood of vile, well-delivered verbal abuse.

She waits, feeling as if each passing millisecond is another step in a slow march to her death.

She waits, but Cheryl doesn’t deliver. In fact, the girl extends another page of her book, with another painting—one Betty doesn’t recognize—and nods confidently, “I am strongly inclined to proceed with a romanticism visual motif, as the July Revolution resonates with our overall theme of self-government as the driving principle behind the drafting of the Constitution,” and at this, Betty wonders why she ever doubted Cheryl’s intelligence, “however, I am amenable to negotiation, and if you’d prefer a strictly American theme, I can be persuaded if presented with an acceptable alternative.”

“That’s it?” a puzzled Betty blurts out. “You’re not going to insult me?”

The girl seems almost exaggeratedly offended by the question. “Do you believe me incapable of engaging in courteous conversation?”

“Um, yeah,” Betty replies bluntly.

“Don’t be absurd,” Cheryl dismisses easily, before announcing that she will gather additional books, leaving a bewildered Betty at their shared table.

What the hell is going on here? Why isn’t Cheryl her usual demonic self?

Betty’s eyes follow the girl to the shelves located in the back of the classroom, only a few feet behind her, and spots the redhead and Kevin, rapidly advancing in a collision course.

“Nice new uniforms,” Kevin opines, sparking the inevitable argument first, as he always does. “I hate to remind you of this,” he remarks haughtily, not sounding at all like he hates it, “but the student council was not consulted for the new design, which is kind of against protocol.”

From where Betty is seated, she catches Cheryl scoffing impatiently, shadowed by a dramatic shift in tone—the Cheryl she knows and loathes returning to condescending, villainous form. “I don’t crowdsource uniform ideas, Budget Andy Cohen. The fashion wiles of the common folk cannot be relied upon. Last time anyone was consulted besides _moi_ on these matters, the end result was a uniform with all the understated elegance of an early-career Lady Gaga outfit.” She assesses the entirety of his appearance with a patronizing glare and continues with some finality, “perhaps you should concern yourself with matters more suited to your realm of irrelevancy before I arrange for your shipment to Obscurity, Kansas—population: you and your generalized ineptitude.”

Kevin happens to glance Betty’s way and shoots her a sympathetic smile. “What I _should_ do is go check on my friend’s well-being over there before she’s back in your company, which, as we know, is where human happiness goes to die.”

Cheryl is already busying herself sorting through books lined on the shelves before her, and her reply is bored and distracted. “Please do pass along to whichever Disney Channel heroine has inspired your argumentative prowess, how enormously I enjoy your comebacks, Keller.”

When Kevin reaches her, Betty is pondering on the scene she’s just witnessed—Cheryl is indeed not nice, all of a sudden, except to her. Which... _why_?

“Did you know she used her Malfoy—pardon, _Blossom_ —family wealth directly instead of school funds to buy the new uniforms? Completely out of protocol,” her aggravated friend hisses, rolling his eyes. Then, he shudders and inquires with concern, “how’s it going being partnered with Lucifer?”

She leans closer to him, lowering her voice to appropriately convey her baffling observation. “She’s not being mean to me. At all.”

And she expects Kevin to fall over in shock, or gasp, or display at least some degree of surprise, but he simply nods in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“That makes the opposite of sense,” Betty argues with a frown, and he seems to catch himself then.

“Oh, yes, right—this is completely unexpected and totally insane,” he corrects, so obviously lying that Betty wonders whether he thinks he’s pulling this off.

“Kev, why are you...”

Her sentence trails off, then. Because Veronica and Jughead, along with the rest of their group, have returned to the class. And Betty can recognize a chance when she sees it—this is it; their Biology test will occupy the entirety of fifth period, and they do not have sixth period together, so she needs to talk to Veronica now and fix this, before her own group is ushered to the library.

She stands from her desk, takes the first step; hopes other students are sufficiently preoccupied with their assignments that she can do this discreetly.

Takes the second step, catches Jughead leaving his shared desk with Veronica to use a computer nearby; wonders why she can taste her heartbeat in her throat.

(There’s no reason to be nervous—she’s your best friend.)

Takes a third step, watches Veronica look up from her books to notice her approach and give her a small smile; tries not to be distracted by the distinct sensation of Veronica clicking into place while everything else shifts out of focus.

Takes a fourth step and doesn’t know where her hands are, how her feet are moving, what expression she is carrying.

When Betty reaches her, there’s no time for a warm-up, for anything other than a direct apology. “I’m really sorry about what happened with my sister; that she didn’t know who you are,” she declares immediately, urgency injecting a strange kind of bravery in her bloodstream. “We haven’t had time to catch up on everything, and she hasn’t even been inside my room, really, or checked anything on the Internet, so she’s never even seen a picture of us…”

Veronica laughs sympathetically, and even though there’s a desk separating them, Betty feels the sound pull at her much like a magnet. “It’s fine, Betty. Really. I imagine her return caused quite an upheaval at the Cooper home. I was just a little surprised.” The girl pauses, donning the look Betty associates with the very rare moments in which Veronica is ever unsure. “So she doesn’t know… anything?”

“Well... um, now she does,” Betty explains with renewed chagrin. “I told her right after.”

It’s Veronica’s eyebrows, shooting high into her forehead, that tip Betty off that her embarrassment is very much being shared by the girl in front of her. “You know what; I’m glad we were introduced to one another under those circumstances,” she assures with the lightest trace of a blush. “It’d have been much more awkward to meet her and at the same time receive a ‘what are your intentions’ kind of talk.”

Inwardly, Betty cringes at the thought; outwardly, she grins, because for all the horrors of their meeting, at least they’ve crossed that bridge.

“I’m still sorry it put you in an awkward position,” Betty insists anyway, just as another student walks by and compliments the new Vixen uniform. “The new uniforms do look nice,” Betty agrees, relieved that some of her nervousness has dissipated and she has not, as she had predicted, died from a heart attack.

Veronica takes a second to glance down her own body, surveying her attire. “Cheryl redesigned them for the new season,” she comments with a shrug. “Your set is ready for you, whenever you’re in the clear to come back to the squad.” Smoothly, she removes her letterman jacket to set it upon her desk, and Betty is simultaneously distracted by the jacket and its unfamiliar material, and Veronica’s reveal of her shoulders and neck—skin that Betty remembers in a feverish flash that she tasted; kissed, bit, and licked. Veronica’s words are muffled by memories a febrile Betty has to try very, very hard to quell. “You weren’t here for the fittings and it couldn’t be rescheduled, but I was able to help, I think, and it should fit you.”

She replies unthinkingly, too concentrated in the effort to tear her eyes from Veronica’s neck. “Well, I’m glad you were there, since you know my whole body really well.” Her brain catches up to her words after a silent beat, during which Veronica purses her lips, only barely suppressing a smile. At the realization of what she’s just said, a powerful wave of panic almost makes Betty throw up. “I mean, my size,” she stumbles to correct; “you know my size. That’s what I was talking about.”

A sheepherder in Iceland.

A weather monitor in Antarctica.

A terrain specialist in the Gobi Desert.

All jobs she could feasibly hold if she packed her bags at this very moment and fled Riverdale and this neverending pit of embarrassment that is interacting with Veronica today and accidentally flirting with her.

Veronica’s bemused chuckle drags her attention from her escape plans back to the girl in front of her.

“Should you ever need my services again, I’d be happy to help,” a smiling Veronica murmurs, attention unwaveringly fixed on her. Betty doesn’t try to look away—she’d never be able to. “Seeing as how your… body is still fresh in my mind.”

Betty has been aching for Veronica all week, at times subtly enough that she’s noticed only a dull, constant longing that she can’t wash away. Right now, however, that ache blooms into a full-blown craving, all while her brain sort of short-circuits, because, seriously—did Veronica just flirt back?

She did— _she really did_ —is what Betty realizes with shock when she recognizes something important, that she had missed before: Veronica, wearing a smile similar to the one she so effectively employs when she’s tying boys’ heartstrings around her fingers; a perfect mix of mischief and innocence, tangled with and reinforced by her easy charm. The smile Veronica is giving her now looks like a kinder version of that one—warmed by familiarity, devoid of the usual loftiness, and still intoxicatingly appealing. It whispers to her like a secret only Betty is privy to, and with it, Veronica is practically unwrapping Betty’s heart, without even trying—Betty can’t even imagine herself in the shoes of someone having to actually resist Veronica when she _does_ try.

She and Kevin have literally mocked boys for so readily making fools of themselves for Veronica’s attention, and now she gets it. She completely understands it—this is what they wanted; to have Veronica absorb all of the light and color in a room while looking at them like this.

From some depth of her vacant mind, Betty finds the energy to ask faintly, “do you want to sign my cast?”

“Of course—I thought you’d never ask.” Effortlessly, Veronica whips out a marker from her bag and examines the cast. “Did you reserve a good location for me or am I relegated to the elbow?”

Against the stiffness of her muscles and the bouncing anxiety in her stomach, Betty chuckles and recalls Kevin’s remarks yesterday while pointing to the centermost area in the front of her cast. “No, you have the prime real estate. I saved it for you.” 

Veronica makes her way around the table and Betty’s vision almost blurs with the pounding of her heart and the nervous, overwhelmed flutter making its way through her chest when the girl is only a few short inches in front of her. She bends down slightly until she’s eye-level with Betty’s forearm, and settles her marker onto the cast just as the professor calls out a 2-minute advisory to Betty’s group for their turn in the library.

“I bet you’re saying that to all the girls,” a grinning Veronica whispers teasingly as she’s writing, knocking the breath from Betty’s lungs.

This is what it would have been like, to have a crush on Veronica. It’s likely that sometime before she actually fell in love with her, Betty had journeyed through the crush stage; she just probably didn’t notice. And now she thinks she knows how she would have felt during that stage, had she paid attention—this sensation of suspended animation, of unsteadiness, of being unmoored, of hopeless immersion into Veronica’s inexplicably strong gravity.

“Not every girl,” Betty denies, equally low, wondering whether she can stay in this conversation without fainting. “Just…” she glances at the desk, spots Veronica’s jacket. “Veronica Lodge, vice BIC.”

Betty peeks down when she hears Veronica addressing her while still occupied with her marker. “Veronica Lodge? I heard she’s partially the reason you got this cast in the first place.” 

“She is,” Betty agrees, laughing when Veronica gives her a feather-light, disapproving slap against her side. “But it’s fine; I forgave her. And I would fall off a cabinet again, for her.”

At this, Veronica stands upright, giving a last once-over at the cast. “Please don’t,” she asks with a sigh. “You’re by far the hottest person in this school but having multiple casts throughout your body will severely limit your potential wardrobe options.”

It still baffles her that someone who looks like Veronica Lodge thinks she, pastel-cardigan-wearing Elizabeth “The Lesser” Cooper, is good-looking. “You have a point there,” she agrees, angling her head sideways to study her cast curiously.

_With hopes that you will stop (almost) breaking bones and go back to only breaking hearts,  
-the V to your B_

It pulls a smile from Betty so wide that it threatens to split her cheeks.

“Of course, you could always have specially-made clothing tailored for you and your multiple casts, if you do want to keep falling off cabinets for me,” Veronica suggests, quirking an eyebrow.

“And I wouldn’t even have to go get fitted,” Betty breathes out, wanting so badly to take another step forward, to close the already-small distance and remind herself of what Veronica’s lips taste like. “You could just do it for me since my body is so fresh in your mind.” They share a laugh and Betty lets a spontaneous rush of bravery carry her through her next sentence. “Hey V, can we talk today after school?”

At her proposition, Veronica’s smile dissolves into a sad shake of her head. “Tomorrow night the Bulldogs have a game against Greendale, which apparently is a big deal?” Betty nods in understanding immediately, because yes, the Riverdale football game against Greendale is probably the most anticipated sporting event of the year, as the two towns have a rich, historic rivalry, “so we have practice today after school.”

Okay, so that didn’t work out—

“How about at the dance tonight?” Veronica suggests instead, piquing Betty’s heartrate. “Are you still grounded or are you attending it?”

“I’m grounded until 6pm today,” a happy Betty responds, smiling again. “So I’m going. And yes, it’d be nice if we could talk.”

Veronica leans forward only a fraction of an inch to hand her a book, but Betty's breath hitches in her throat just the same. "Here. _King Lear_. Yesterday and today, at odd times, I'd remember the things we talked about... um, on Sunday." The image of Veronica pressing a burning kiss to the shivering skin beside her bellybutton splashes inside Betty's mind, effectively chopping away her composure. "And I remembered that you had asked for this."

At that moment, her group begins to head to the classroom exit, and Betty extracts herself from the sphere of isolation she's occupied with Veronica to shoot a worried glance at Cheryl—and is taken aback instantly when she notices the redhead and Kevin watching her and Veronica with wide, fascinated grins.

“Um, I guess it’s my group now,” Betty mumbles, still frowning when she turns back to Veronica. “Thank you for this. And good luck on the Biology test.”

Veronica nods, with a beam so impossibly alluring that it seems to reach inside Betty’s chest and seeps into her veins. (Christ, she has it so, so bad for this girl.) “Same to you.”

As they head out of the classroom amid the dozen or so students that spill into the hallway, Betty rolls her eyes when she finds herself sandwiched between Kevin and Cheryl, wearing identical conspiratorial smirks.

“So…” Kevin begins with a terrifying amount of enthusiasm, “you and Veronica were talking, as we saw…”

“For a quite intriguing length of time,” Cheryl continues, matching him in apparent attachment to this conversation. The redhead takes a quick break to tell off a wide-eyed student who looks all of twelve-years-old and committed the fatal mistake of not clearing way quickly enough for her passage. “Freshman vigor exhausts me,” she comments disinterestedly after the incident.

“Yes, it must be such a burden, being nice to people and treating others well and all that,” Betty quips, wishing she sounded a bit more abrasive, but her lingering good mood from her conversation with Veronica doesn’t allow it.

“Anyway, back to you and Veronica,” Kevin resumes, excitedly, and Cheryl heartily nods in approval, “how did that go?”

There are wildly different reactions she wants to register at the moment; revulsion that these two mortal enemies seemed to have bonded over their shared investment in her relationship with Veronica, but also annoyance because she does not want to discuss Veronica—at all.

“In case you two have forgotten, we have an assignment to do,” Betty decides to remind with a huff, as they near the entrance to the library “and by the way, Kevin, don’t you have a partner you should be working with on this?”

“Wow, rude,” Kevin admonishes, taking solace from a sympathetic Cheryl. “Fine. I’ll find out from Veronica anyway.”

With that, the boy resentfully stalks away, but Betty has no reprieve. “You need not worry, for I shall not inquire further on your dealings with Veronica,” Cheryl assures as they browse through the bookshelves, much too agreeably for Betty’s suspicion. “I will only note that the Vixens’ code of conduct has not lowered its standards since your absence, and therefore, if you leave any… _marks_ on Veronica—”

“Oh my God, Cheryl,” Betty cringes and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, praying for the patience of angels to withstand this additional round of torture, “please stop.”

“—I shall have no recourse but to impose formal discipline, to prevent such reckless besmirching of our squad’s good name. I speak, of course, only of areas that remain visible outside of the coverage afforded by our uniforms—”

\--

_“Can I just say that I’m making a valiant attempt to set my alarm so you may wake up on time in the morning, and you touching me is very counterproductive?”_  
_“Is this better?”_  
_“Kissing is still touching. So, no.”_

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had a dollar for every time i wrote and rewrote this chapter, I would have enough money to buy a large drink and popcorn combo at a movie theater--yes; you, who guessed $50, you're correct.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and to everyone still following this story--especially when it was originally supposed to have 6 chapters and now here I am, adding another one, and it's not even the last!--I can't tell you how much I appreciate your support and encouragement. You're all amazing :D


	10. Spin #3, Pt. II

As promised by Alice Cooper, Betty receives her cellphone back that afternoon, just as she’s completing one last check of her make-up and dress—the latter a marine-blue piece she’s wearing specifically because it was the only one in her closet through which she could fit her inconveniently-sized cast and which could also pass for something influenced by a notoriously gaudy decade, the 1980’s. Polly had decided against shopping for a maternity-friendly dress to attend the school event, so Betty is alone when she meets Kevin and Jughead outside her home to head to Riverdale High’s “Your Parents’ Prom” themed dance. And it’s while she’s being squeezed into the middle seat of Kevin’s pick-up truck that she finally turns her attention to her phone, impatiently watching the small apple-shaped logo appear on the screen to indicate that the device is powering on.

“Archie texted that they’re just leaving Veronica’s place now,” Jughead comments, adjusting his beanie with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other while Kevin speeds off. “I guess they’re taking her town car instead of his... she must have not been too fond of the idea of being driven around in a pickup currently being held together by duct tape.” At the mention of Veronica’s name, Betty disguises her wince—a tense reflex—by glancing down at her phone again, blanching when she catches sight of a screen brightening into life to reveal numerous unread notifications—among them, 5 text messages and one missed call from Veronica, all from last Sunday.

Even with the possibility that there are more emergent notifications she should prioritize, Betty notices the low battery percentage and chooses to read Veronica’s texts first, momentarily tuning out Jughead and Kevin’s conversation around her.

The first text was sent at noon, a time during which Betty estimates she had just found Polly at Quiet Mercy.

_V_Lo: I’m guessing you had to rush off to your parents… once you’ve convinced them that you spent the evening in your own bed, perhaps you could return to mine :)_

Immediately, Betty lowers her phone face down onto her lap and clears her throat, trying to disguise the hitching of her breath. There’s no way she can count how many times she had been tempted on Sunday to do just that—make her way back to Veronica, to the warmth and softness of her body, and stay. 

Cautiously, she ensures the two boys are still engaged in conversation and returns to her phone to find that closer to the evening, Veronica sent her another 3 texts:

_V_Lo: Was it Faulkner who said that man is the sum of his misfortunes? Apropos that dictum, I’ve been practically strong-armed into attending a sleepover at Cheryl’s tonight. Her brother’s memorial service is approaching, and a mix of blackmail and guilt have convinced me to attend it. At least her minions will be there to distract from my unwilling presence. Did you make it home in time to catch your parents?_

The sleepover. Betty swallows down a pang of anxiety as her eyes sweep each word and she remembers with painful clarity what her reaction was when Veronica attempted to broach this subject with her. This is the incident that managed to pull rashly at all the most sensitive parts of Betty: her propensity for self-doubt, her lingering insecurity stemming from Archie’s rejection, and her resentment of the Blossoms.

_V_Lo: Is Thornhill haunted? This is a serious question_

_V_Lo: Cheryl may or may not have grossly exaggerated the number of girls who would be in attendance at this sleepover. And by that, I mean I’m the only one here. And by the way, her family is absolutely deranged. If you are unable to reach me tomorrow, assume I’ve been taken hostage by the Riverdale Medicis and report my disappearance to the authorities_

Late into the evening, Veronica sent her one last text. And this is the one that Betty stares at for an indefinite amount of time, reading and re-reading, unable to look away.

_V_Lo: You know… I think Cheryl just needs a friend._

A burst of memory furrows her brows, retreating as quickly as it appeared; Veronica embracing a devastated Cheryl as the latter cried inside a vacant locker room on a rainy September evening.

The fast-setting sun announces the shift from afternoon to night, and while the world around her is darkening, a creeping, stomach-turning realization glows untamed inside her mind, and Betty shuts off her phone screen to force out a shaky breath. Something unsettles her; picks at the frayed, anxious corners of her feelings, and invites her to push open a door through which she really, really does not want to walk.

_("We may one day be two roads that diverge in a yellow wood, Betty. But Cheryl will not be the reason why.")_

“I don’t see Veronica’s town car,” Kevin comments idly as he drives them around an emptier corner of the parking lot, and Betty surfaces from the whirlpool of her thoughts to fight a whining impulse to present some excuse that can convince her friends to turn back around and drop her off into the emotional safety of her home. Instead, Betty steadies her nerves, tells herself that her shaking is from the November cold, and a minute later, steps inside the crowded, densely-packed school auditorium.

There has never been any doubt that the Riverdale High events team, a branch of the student council, is wholeheartedly committed to exaggerated authenticity, and this is glaringly obvious tonight—Betty truly feels as though she has been transported into a caricature of a decade that was apparently entirely defined by bouncy, synthesizer-heavy music, taffeta, loud prints, and the most hideously-paired color combinations she’s ever seen.

Suddenly, she’s quite self-conscious that perhaps her bright cyan dress and minimally-teased hair are too subtle for this party.

“Kevin, the student council really outdid itself,” Jughead grunts, shifting inside a leather jacket/jeans ensemble that surprisingly does not appear too removed from his usual attire, while Betty notices that Kevin is surveying the decorations with proud delight, adjusting his own salmon and lime green-patterned tracksuit. “My eyes are burning and about to fall out of their sockets.”

“I am _shocked_ by your disapproval, John Bender,” Kevin retorts in good-natured sarcasm. “Excuse me while I go mop my tears from our exquisite neon-indigo dancefloor.”

As a vaguely familiar keyboard-laden song begins to play and Kevin enthusiastically pulls both her and Jughead to the aforementioned dancefloor, Betty discreetly scans the packed auditorium for the person she needs to see (Veronica) and the one she would prefer to avoid (Cheryl). The colorful swashes of light reflected by the disco balls suspended from the ceiling provide decent illumination but neither are anywhere to be seen. She retrieves her phone from her purse to text Veronica, but Kevin’s exclaimed “ _take on meeee, take me onnnn_ ” distracts her and she shares a laugh with Jughead, allowing herself to be swept by her friend’s joy and dancing along.

A laughing Kevin leads Betty into a synced turn timed to coincide with a sweeping falsetto note, and then it finally happens, just as she’s halfway through the motion and the crowd pressing around her disperses for just a quick moment. Her breath hiccups, stuck inside her throat, and her heart begins a violent gallop that freezes her mid-step.

There she is.

Surrounded by the football team and each player’s respective date, partaking in a group photograph against an obnoxiously-colored zebra-print background. Laughing with another student as Archie and the other boys pose in their sleeveless denim jackets, muscles flexed and angled for maximum exposure.

It’s a strange kind of homesickness, the pull that overcomes her right then as she watches Veronica force a smile to join another elaborately-arranged group photo. Betty knows she needs to look away, to look at someone else, otherwise she’ll make this too obvious, and already she feels like her history with Veronica glows in the dark and marks her. 

“You’re not going to go talk to Veronica? I thought you two got back together,” Jughead comments idly beside her, and both Kevin and Betty swivel in his direction with surprise—which, in turn, surprises Jughead. “Oh, are you not back with her? I saw you two flirting this morning in class and I thought—”

“Jug, you knew about me and Veronica?” she asks with shock, trying to speak just loudly enough that she can be heard over the music by her two friends, without broadcasting the conversation to students dancing around them.

“Come on; give me and my detective skills some credit. I’m an investigative journalist,” Jughead scoffs with a frown. “Veronica’s interview was basically a love letter to you, Betty. And there’s no one else who could have given her that hickey besides you. Oh, and how could I forget—on our way to get Polly from that convent, you dozed off in the bus and mumbled Veronica’s name several times in your sleep.”

Immediately, Betty blushes—less out of the gentle prick of embarrassment from her friend’s words, and more out of recollection of just what, exactly, she had been dreaming about. Veronica, yes, but more specifically, things Veronica had done to her.

With her mouth and her tongue and her hands.

(God, she’s so glad her friends can’t read minds.)

A fellow member of the student council pulls an apologetic Kevin aside, and Betty maintains her attention on Jughead to state remorsefully, “I was going to tell you, I promise. But I wasn’t sure Veronica was okay with it, and yes, we’ve been fighting so I hadn’t really talked to her before today, and it was for only a short time.”

“You and Veronica hadn’t talked before this morning?” Jughead asks, apparently taken aback. “This whole week? You didn’t talk at all?”

An unpleasant thought reminds her of something that she’s tried quite a bit not to let bother her. “Well, I didn’t have my phone and she didn’t exactly visit me while I was on bed rest, so yeah; I only saw her today at school.”

At this, Jughead’s frown deepens. “Betty, of course she tried to visit you—I thought you knew. But when would your mother ever let a Lodge step foot in your house; never mind that she thinks hanging out with Veronica is the bad influence that landed you in detention in the first place?”

Betty recoils a bit at the revelation, and then immediately feels like an idiot because of course Veronica, her best friend, would have made an attempt to see her. Why in the world did she ever doubt that? 

Elation bubbles inside of her and she raises a hopeful gaze above the crowd to search for Veronica.

But then Jughead amends sympathetically, “or hanging out with a Blossom, for that matter; if I remember correctly, the first time she tried to visit you, Cheryl went with her to see how you were doing.” And at this, Betty balks a bit, jaw slacking.

Why would Cheryl Blossom visit her? Was the niceness this morning not an isolated incident?

That door she was determined to avoid is propped ajar again, its siren call reaching to her like tentacles.

The truth is, Betty had been unable to imagine a scenario in which Veronica could both like her and still do so much to aggravate her, like sleeping over at Cheryl’s house and then becoming her vice-captain. But now a creeping suspicion challenges her and tips her world lopsided, that perhaps this was never about Cheryl, that perhaps this was bigger than Cheryl, that perhaps something else was happening to motivate Veronica’s decisions all along, and Betty completely missed it—

_(“We may one day be two roads that diverge in a yellow wood, Betty. But Cheryl will not be the reason why.”)_

Kevin rejoins them just as Jughead is longingly eyeing the food table, asking, “hey, is anyone else hungry?”

_(“You know… I think Cheryl just needs a friend.”)_

When was the last time Cheryl was deliberately cruel to her? Monday? 

_(“Cease and desist your graceless jogging, swamp creature...”)_

Yes, definitely Monday— _(“…before you set off my allergy to mediocrity”)_ —and then… nothing. They endured their period of detention and Cheryl was actually on her side when Veronica opposed her plan for escape, and nothing else really happened on Monday involving Cheryl.

Except…

 _(“Cheryl tweeted it like 30 minutes ago but the entire school knows already.”)_

One thing.

_(“Veronica is the Vixens’ new vice-captain.”)_

A corner of her mind catches snippets of her friends’ conversation, another corner is focused solely on Veronica and the need to find her, but yet another corner is being overtaken by an intricately-woven tapestry emerging inside her thoughts; separate facts and memories and incidents, previously unrelated, now colliding and melding together to form a picture that confronts her in a flash of recognition.

_(“That’s it? You’re not going to insult me?”)_

Crap.

_(“Do you believe me incapable of engaging in courteous conversation?”)_

There is no way Veronica actually—

_(“I didn’t accept the vice-captainship to do something against you. I did it for you. For your benefit.”)_

Oh my God.

_(“I do everything for you.”)_

An extravagant guitar refrain fades off with the conclusion of yet another terrible song, but it’s immediately followed by a fast-paced, almost nauseously-bouncy pop rock ballad of piano and drums whose first two verses effectively halt her heartbeat and breathing in one sweeping surge, short-circuiting her body. Her arms drop to her sides and she blinks, remembering through a blurry, faded snapshot, an impossibly appealing girl inside a speeding cab traversing New York, pointing excitedly to the recording studio inside which Bruce Springsteen recorded every “dad’s favorite album,” and then again, standing on a staircase with a smile outshining the sun in its brightest day, leaning close to her to sing the softest tune Betty had ever heard.

_Well, I came to your house the other day  
Your mother said you went away_

“Ooh, The Boss! Hey, Jug, go fill up the bottomless pit that calls itself your stomach,” Kevin instructs with a laugh, subsequently turning his attention to Betty when Jughead enthusiastically complies. “Betty, isn’t this a bop? ‘Bobby Jean’—a classic. I really think _Born in the USA_ is what God listens to on his iPod.” His cheer morphs into a concerned frown when he notices Betty’s alarm.

_She said there was nothing that I could have done  
There was nothing nobody could say_

“Betty, everything okay?”

_(“I do everything for you.”)_

Crap. Crap, crap, crap—she needs to find Veronica. Betty’s eyes urgently and unsuccessfully scan the photo stage but the girl is nowhere to be found; the football team must have concluded their group shots.

_Me and you, we've known each other ever since we were sixteen_

The question that’s floating most closely to the surface of her chaotic mind is the one she blurts out, impulsively. “Kevin, did Veronica exchange anything for being Cheryl’s vice-captain? Like Cheryl not being a bitch to me anymore?”

A series of small tells—his paling face and the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes—answers the question even before he responds, “I don’t think I should discuss—”

“So that’s a yes,” Betty interrupts with a groan, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I have to talk to Veronica.” The statement is firm and impatient with the same urgency that’s jumpstarted all her nerves and muscles into overdrive, and she walks away immediately in the direction of the photo stage, smiling nonetheless when she hears Kevin call out “go get ‘er!”

_Now, you hung with me when all the others  
Turned away, turned up their nose_

When she’s only a few feet from Kevin, her path is cleared sufficiently that she’s able to catch sight of both Veronica—now engulfed by the horde of football players and giggling girls at the Bulldogs’ exclusive team table—and Cheryl, flanked on the dancefloor by three of her minions, all in various stages of boring their leader while attempting to impress her.

One at a time. Walk through the door first.

_We liked the same music_

She thought she needed to understand this, whatever it was that drew Veronica to Cheryl. But she didn’t need to, not really. The entire picture had already been laid clear before her, and all that had been required of her was an attempt, however meager, to remember all the various glimpses Veronica has given her of the subtle self-loathing that she always carries inside her, and then place herself in Veronica’s shoes and imagine what it would be like to see yourself in someone else. And this is the Cheryl Veronica sees, perhaps the Cheryl Betty should be seeing, instead. The girl Veronica comforted that rainy night in September, and again a week ago; the girl whose school year began shadowed by tragedy. While Betty always has a vague awareness floating hazily in the back of her mind that Jason died, she’s always processed his death through Polly’s eyes and Polly’s loss, without ever truly considering that he also belonged to someone else, to someone who literally had not known any part of her life without him.

_We liked the same bands_

And as Betty’s resolve hardens and she walks through the door, she’s reminded of how Veronica sees _her_.

_We liked the same clothes_

There is a version of Betty—the best one—that Veronica believes blindly exists all the time, because she loves her.

_(“You’re a much better person than anyone I’ve ever met.”)_

This is the person Betty is, in Veronica’s eyes; someone who is always willing to give second chances, and this also is the part of herself that Betty likes the most, because it gave her Veronica. And now, immersed in a melody she last heard being sung by the girl she loves back, Betty steadies her nerves, swallows down a painful lump inside her throat, and takes a hesitant step forward. Then, she taps Cheryl’s shoulder lightly and greets, “hi, Cheryl.”

The redhead turns with surprise, and a tinge of worry Betty had been carrying—that she’s doing something incredibly stupid by approaching a girl capable of unmatched levels of cruelty and exposing herself to the risk of being openly ridiculed and mocked and humiliated—grows when she notices the disdainful glares from Cheryl’s companions, who are practically holding their breaths in anticipation of certain bloodbath.

Betty stands her ground, perfectly still, because this is who Veronica thinks she is, and Betty wants her to be right.

“Cooper…” It’s immediately clear that Cheryl herself cannot think of any reason for Betty’s unexpected contact, and Betty could have been intimidated merely by the girl’s raised eyebrow, but now that she’s taken the first step into that door, turning back is not an option. She could ask this favor from any one of her friends, but she chose Cheryl, because she hopes that, like Veronica, Cheryl will meet her halfway. 

“I need a favor,” Betty continues, wavering voice betraying more of her apprehension than she would have liked, “from you, as a friend.”

She called Cheryl Blossom a friend. The weighty word is suspended in the air between them, and Betty stiffens when the corner of Cheryl’s mouth quirks, telegraphing the beginning of a smile.

This is it. Cheryl’s optimal opportunity to deliver a swift and bloodthirsty insult.

Instead of quipping some awful, mean comment, the girl surprises Betty by dismissing her minions with a graceful motion of one hand and a regal command (“disperse, sycophants”), all while entirely at ease in a forest-green lace gown with surprisingly sophisticated puffed sleeves that would not have looked out of place on an Oscar red carpet in 1985. “I will venture this has something to do with Veronica,” Cheryl guesses knowingly, turning her attention to the Bulldogs’ table, on which they both spot the girl in question.

_Now, we went walking in the rain,  
Talking about the pain that from the world we hid_

Finally, Veronica’s unmistakable gaze swoops across the crowded auditorium to meet her own, and as she gives Betty a bright, lovely, happy smile, Betty’s heartbeats slow into a steady, languid rhythm, that almost hurts her as it reminds her that the girl she thought had broken her heart had in reality made every effort to keep it intact.

_Now there ain't nobody, nowhere, nohow  
Gonna ever understand me the way you did_

“You know, for two people who are already sleeping together, you and Veronica possess an inordinate amount of unresolved sexual tension.”

_Maybe you'll be out there on that road somewhere_

Betty wills herself to be madder at the comment, but Cheryl’s tone is playful in a way that’s so completely devoid of hostility, that the only reaction she’s able to register is a half-hearted eye-roll.

_In some bus or train traveling along_

“Now, what assistance were you about to request?”

One at a time.

Clearing her throat, Betty brings her focus back to her present mission. “I need you to distract Archie, so I can talk to Veronica without him thinking she’s abandoned him.”

_In some motel room there'll be a radio playing_

Upon understanding her request, Cheryl’s grin becomes alarmingly thrilled, eyes ablaze with excitement. “Are you enlisting my services in the time-honored tradition of wing-womanship?”

What in the…

_And you'll hear me sing this song_

“Wing… woman… ship…?” Betty repeats, half in disbelief and half in dismay at the increasingly likelier possibility that she’s picked entirely the wrong person for this. “Um… sure.”

“It would be my privilege,” Cheryl nods solemnly, with exaggerated formality. “I have enormous relief,” she continues enthusiastically, “knowing you will not, as I feared, allow Veronica to be a road in which you glimpsed, but never traveled.”

_Well, if you do, you'll know I'm thinking of you_

“That is in reference to—”

“Frost, I know,” Betty chuckles now, wanting to shake her head at the absolutely unwanted tinge of affection she’s feeling for a girl she’s spent years loathing. “Veronica quotes him every other day.”

_And all the miles in between_

At this, a pleased Cheryl nods in approval. “What a heartening surprise, that Veronica has influenced you intellectually, and not solely sexually.”

Betty almost chokes on air with a jolt of embarrassment, and has to cough in caution for her airways. “Yep, I’m leaving,” she grunts, contemplating Cheryl’s grin again and letting herself enjoy the satisfaction of having made the right decision. “Thanks for the talk. Let’s not ever do this again.”

Jughead appears suddenly at her side, frowning after a second-long appraisal of her proximity to Cheryl. “Betty, is Cheryl bothering you?”

_And I'm just calling you one last time_

With an aristocratic scoff, Cheryl speaks up first. “ _Au contraire_ , early-aughts Avril Lavigne. Out of my way—I am a woman on a mission.” Quickly, she waltzes into the Bulldogs’ table and Betty watches the girl charm her way into a dance with Archie while Veronica glances in Betty’s direction again, raising her eyebrows as though asking for a confirmation that what she thinks is happening is indeed what is actually happening.

_Not to change your mind, but just to say I miss you, baby_

Veronica rises from her chair and heads in the direction of the hallway that connects the auditorium to the rest of the school’s buildings, and Betty, emboldened further by Jughead’s encouraging thumbs-up, takes off to follow her.

 _Bobby Jean_ ’s final brassy notes fade off as Betty finds Veronica inside a dim bathroom in the hallway, carefully washing her hands and arms.

“One of the girls spilled an entire bottle of glitter on me,” Veronica explains with a sigh. A distant shuffling sound from the hallway prompts Betty to step inside, and, if only to distract from her own nervousness and to pretend she has some reason for being in this bathroom, she washes her hands as well, even though the combination of a low sink and her cast makes the task more difficult. “So, how did you like the song?”

Veronica is wearing a loose-fitting metallic silver dress whose length would have made it look like a shirt on Betty—and yet, draping Veronica’s body, it looks like something ripped from the cover of a fashion magazine. Thus, it takes a lot more effort than Betty expected to maintain a conversation with Veronica without, first of all, staring, and second of all, kissing her.

“Your version wasn’t that bad compared to the original,” Betty replies after clearing her throat, laughing when Veronica flicks a few water droplets her way. 

“Yes, if only I had a prodigious saxophone solo in my version.”

Another student enters the bathroom and Veronica raises her chin and points it to the main exit, silently inviting her outside the building. Without a second thought, Betty follows her lead, regretting it almost instantly when they are greeted by the chilly winter winds blasting through Riverdale this evening.

“This Arctic-adjacent experience is reminding me of New York,” Veronica shivers, before grabbing Betty’s rapidly-cooling hand and pulling her towards the parking lot. “I know where we can go.”

A second later, they’re inside the much warmer—and much dimmer—interior of Veronica’s town car, which, as Betty comes to find out, is basically a downsized limousine: heavily-tinted windows, plush leather seats, expansive passenger space, and even a— “do you seriously have a refrigerator in your car?”

Veronica laughs, and, seemingly in response, reaches into the small appliance and retrieves a water bottle, twisting it on the palm of her hand before extending it to her. “Want one?”

Her eyes are still adjusting to the darkness and her mouth moves on its own accord to express a lingering, albeit weak, insecurity she still has: that spinning bottles have pulled Veronica in a thousand directions, most of them away from her. “You and bottles…” When the girl raises her eyebrows questioningly, Betty tries to turn her comment into a joke, instead. “Whenever you touch a bottle, someone I don’t like very much pops up in front of you.”

Placing the bottle atop the compact refrigerator, an amused Veronica purses her lips and remarks, “yeah, my bottle spins have been pretty disastrous.”

It could be argued, Betty reflects, reconsidering her previous stance, that perhaps Veronica’s participation in each occurrence of the Seven Minutes in Heaven game is exactly what set the course for every development between them. Archie’s bottle pointing to Veronica; Veronica’s bottle selecting Archie, and her kissing Cheryl instead; her bottle picking Reggie, and then Betty’s own spin ensuring that the girl ended up in the closet with her—this game that Betty has always hated is undeniably a strand in the fabric that sewed them together. And it started with Cheryl Blossom.

“I’m so sorry I fought you over Cheryl.” There’s a heavy discomfort in her chest, even more constricting than the cast around her arm; the ache of an apology that should have been given a long time ago. “I know I wasn’t seeing things right. I confused myself, I just… I couldn’t figure out what you wanted.” Or whether Veronica actually wanted her, is what she means to say, but she hesitates, because Veronica is watching her so quietly, so intently, that now Betty finally understands the magnitude of what she’s just barely begun to address. 

“I wanted…” Veronica murmurs faintly, with that voice Betty’s gotten so used to hearing inside her head and inside her heart, “to wake up on Sunday morning and see you with me. Then, when you weren't there, I read your note and called you and wanted you to call me back. Then, I wanted to see you at school on Monday and I wanted to kiss you again. I wanted you to understand why I couldn't just leave Cheryl to drown in her own sadness.” Each word lands with a painful thud onto Betty’s chest. Her nerves feel raw, suddenly; her heart wants to drop out of her rib cage. “I wanted to be your date to this dance.” A small pause, in which Veronica looks to the side for the first time, avoiding Betty’s eyes, and the entire universe seems to have disintegrated outside this car. “I wanted a lot of things; I didn't get any of them. And that's fine,” she adds quickly, meeting her gaze once again, this time with a heartbreakingly-earnest smile. “Because what I really wanted was for you to have what you want. Whatever it is that you want—I want that.”

It dawns on Betty what Veronica is doing, beneath the surface of revealing all the ways Betty’s own actions hurt her. Veronica is giving her an out, a way for Betty to tell her that she wants nothing more than a friendship, that she wants to press some reset button and go back to the beginning, to the place they were in before Betty kissed her at The Pembrooke. Veronica is giving her an out, but Betty doesn’t want it.

There’s a way for her to tell Veronica where she stands, but before she can broach it in the right manner, before she can lay all her cards on the table and admit that she’s incapable of moving on from this if it means moving away from Veronica—before she can tell her the truth, she needs to know that Veronica doesn’t think that what happened between them was a mistake.

“Do you regret sleeping with me?”

Veronica’s eyes widen immediately; the question has obviously thrown her. “No, of course not.” She frowns, studying Betty as though searching her face for some piece of information she’s missing. “In hindsight, I might have done some things differently, of course. I would have… made sure you were ready. I think I would have communicated my feelings more clearly, and perhaps tried to actually date you, or—”

Betty interrupts her because this is it; this is her opening, and already the words are boiling inside her and coming up her throat, the words that Veronica planted in her, now deeply rooted, woven all around her heart. The words that pour out of her now. “I would have stayed. If I could have done anything differently, I would have stayed with you. Until you woke up. And I wouldn’t have fought you over Cheryl. This was never about Cheryl. I’m sorry I made you think it was.” 

She hadn’t really realized how desperately she had been running—away from Veronica, away from her feelings—and now that she’s stopped, now that she’s naming her feelings and calling a spade a spade, it finally feels like she’s standing still. Like at last she’s catching her breath and letting the world catch up to her. Thus, all the things she had been so preoccupied trying to outrun have stopped being behind her. Veronica, her love for the girl, their future—it’s all in front of her now.

“I just... got unsure,” an agitated Betty continues, willing her voice to be steadier, her heartbeats to be slower, “I wondered if you’d ever choose her, or anyone, over me. And that made me insecure, because the truth is, I could never—you’re my favorite person in the world, and I couldn’t choose anyone over you. You’re it.”

In acknowledging these facts, Betty inwardly braces herself for a scenario in which Veronica is the one who chooses the out, and makes a feeble attempt mentally to reassure herself that she’ll be okay with any outcome of this conversation.

The wide-eyed girl in question appears to have stopped breathing altogether, but Betty chooses not to examine that too closely because she might lose her nerve, and she’s getting to the part that really matters, the part where she puts into words the certainty she’s begun to hold that her heart is an engine, not meant to run on anything but Veronica. “You said to me once that you'd wait for me. That I should come find you because you'd be waiting.” In this moment, between one breath and another, Betty aches for her, craves her, loves her. “If you're still waiting, I'm here.”

The silence that follows her admission is so potent that Betty feels her body shrink and sink into the luxurious seat, now truly terrified that her instincts were completely off and this is nothing short of a full-blown catastrophe from which she’ll never recov—

And then, two actions happen barely half a second apart. First, Veronica rapidly leans from her corner of the backseat and presses a hot, heart-stilling kiss on Betty’s lips—and Betty is so stunned that she isn’t even certain where, exactly, Veronica kissed her, because she feels it _everywhere_. Then, Veronica pulls back with a brilliant grin and gently swats Betty’s (uninjured) shoulder.

“You could actually hear me and you didn’t say anything!” 

Even while the tension that had been gripping her muscles eases off, her brain is delayed in allowing her an appropriate reaction; when it does spring back into function, Betty quickly protests with half-hearted indignation, distracted by the lingering heat from Veronica’s kiss, “I was sedated! I couldn’t even move my mouth properly!”

Veronica laughs then, and it’s a full, free sound that Betty hadn’t heard in so long that it seems to brighten the entire cabin. “I can’t believe you think I’d ever choose someone over you.” She shifts on her seat, closer to Betty, and gives her an intoxicatingly happy smile that reassures her that she’s not alone in this, that Veronica is walking the same path with her and sharing the same heartbeats. “I would never choose anyone over you. You’re it for me, too. You always have been.”

Her stomach twists and her heart feels like it’s being squeezed and an almost painful flutter makes its way from her chest to her limbs.

“Can we please never fight again?” Veronica asks, reaching over and grabbing her hand. The brush of skin lights a slow burning throb inside Betty’s body, a sensation that she tries her best not to let distract her. “I can’t stand trying to be mad at you.”

Betty nods vigorously, still far too focused on Veronica’s hand. “I agree, and I don’t think I could go a whole week without talking to you again.”

“Hey, did my slap actually hurt you?” Veronica inquires, genuinely concerned, and Betty can’t contain the effervescent urge to pester the girl a bit.

“Yeah, it did. And I already have one injured arm,” Betty sighs dramatically, “I guess I’ll just get two casts.”

Veronica laughs again, reaching over to the miniature refrigerator and grabbing the water bottle. “And the Oscar for Best Dramatic Performance goes to...” She pretends the bottle is the award statue, and holds it out to Betty with a smirk. 

“I respectfully decline the honor,” Betty comments with a teasing chuckle, shaking her head. “And there you go with that bottle again.”

Surveying the plastic container for a moment, Veronica quirks an eyebrow and notes, “you’re literally the only other person in this car and I quite honestly believe that if I spin this bottle right now, it still wouldn’t point to you.”

With Veronica’s attention focused on the bottle, Betty lets her eyes wander the surfaces of the girl’s face, helping her recollect the last time she dotted each inch of skin with her lips. She feels as though she’s in a dreamlike state between asleep and awake, wanting so badly to pull Veronica closer while simultaneously perfectly content watching the girl lay the bottle onto the leathered space between them with a wink. 

“Let’s test out this theory, shall we?”

Just as Veronica gives the bottle an initial twist and it begins its first revolution, Betty mumbles weakly, eyes hopelessly anchored to the girl, “you don’t have to spin it.” Veronica looks up, gaze magnetized by a glint that charges every particle of the air around them. “I’d kiss you anyway.”

Betty isn’t entirely sure what kind of response she was expecting when she blurted out that admission, but even the best case scenario her mind could come up with would not be as perfect as this: Veronica, in a movement no less graceful or careful than her usual, propping herself onto her knees on the car seat, swinging a leg around Betty’s lap and straddling her, hitting Betty all at once with everything that she missed, everything she had tried so fruitlessly to forget—the flowery perfume that last enveloped Betty in Veronica’s bedroom, the press and warmth of a body whose every corner and curve and line she had touched, eyes she could drown in, a mouth whose taste she’s addicted to, lips that are smiling invitingly, as though beckoning Betty’s own lips to find their way to them.

“Oh, wow,” an overwhelmed Betty breathes out unthinkingly, and then her hands are on Veronica’s thighs and Veronica’s hands are sliding from Betty’s shoulders to her neck, and this is it, this is every dream and fantasy and wish Betty has ever had, embodied in a lapful of Veronica Lodge; it’s finally leaning forward and crashing her lips against Veronica’s, and pulling her closer and licking inside her mouth and catching her lower lip between her teeth and letting Veronica kiss her so deeply and thoroughly that her entire body seems to sear and melt into Veronica’s own.

This is it; a kiss that pulls her into another kiss that pulls her into another, and it all reminds her of being underwater, the weightlessness and the burn in her air-deprived lungs, but Veronica is all she needs, really, she just needs this kiss that feels familiar and timeless and entirely new, that is simultaneously too much and not enough; she just needs Veronica to suck on her lower lip to spark the slow burn in Betty’s body into a full-blown torch.

This is it; her uninjured hand moving on its own accord from gripping Veronica’s thigh to securing her even closer by the girl’s waist, some distant part of her brain afraid of enjoying this too much, hoping feverishly that this isn’t just another hyper-realistic dream she’s having from her hospital bed, and then noticing Veronica’s care when her fingers trace the outline of her jaw before burying themselves in her hair, and this is what grounds her, because Veronica feels solid, Veronica feels real—this is real.

And this is it; Betty having to break off the kiss to inhale, blinking her eyes into focus and attempting to regain her breath, catching sight of Veronica’s kiss-reddened lips and flushed cheeks and stormy eyes that draw her in as though Betty were tethered to them, and then watching every effort to pull herself together promptly disintegrate when Veronica redirects her attention and begins to trail a sequence of scorching, lingering kisses on her neck. Instantly, she’s dizzy, feeling her own thundering heartbeats pounding inside her ear. Veronica murmurs “I missed you so much” against her shivering skin and then her teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot by her ear and in the one diminished portion of Betty’s brain that’s still working, she wonders whether Veronica can feel with her tongue the blood pulsing underneath her skin. It takes one small bite—one whose faint sting Veronica immediately soothes with her tongue—for the tingle low in Betty’s stomach to become an insistent, agonizing tug in her gut. “I missed you, too,” she manages to respond, her voice husky and scratchy. Veronica pulls back a bit and Betty’s mouth latches onto the girl’s neck immediately, because this is something else she missed, and she almost doesn’t register when Veronica whispers, voice made uneven by her shallow breathing, “Betty, if you give me another hickey, I swear to God…” Her words fade into a stilted moan when Betty’s hand finds its way from the girl’s waist back to her thigh, fingers squeezing the warm shape. 

They’re encased in the same heavy atmosphere, loaded with their attraction for one another, and Veronica is breathing onto her skin, and Betty is almost in pain with how much she wants Veronica to touch her. She’s going to evaporate if Veronica doesn’t do it, and she wishes she could tell Veronica this, wishes she knew how to ask for this—please, she wants to say, please touch me.

But what she believes is just a fleeting, if urgent, thought, an inner desperation, is apparently something she does express out loud, in a breathless request that’s half-groan and half-whimper, and immediately she feels Veronica’s mouth press against hers again while she moves the rest of her body back slightly, one of her hands finally—finally—making its way under the hem of her dress, to where Betty has wanted so badly for it to be.

And at first contact, of feeling underwear being moved aside and fingers sliding easily inside her, and then just the right amount of pressure being applied with just the right rhythm and in the exact perfect way, Betty is immersed, deeply and breathlessly, in Veronica Lodge and in her love for her. And she receives an undeniable reminder that Veronica knows her body really, really well when it becomes difficult to keep track of where her own hands are or what they’re doing, and what sounds she’s making, or where she is, or anything, really. Some part of Betty wishes she could prolong this because she doesn’t think she’s ever enjoyed anything as much as she’s enjoying being touched by Veronica, but it’s been a week of craving Veronica so badly that it gave her headaches, of wanting her and not having her, and now Veronica is licking her neck and there’s no use delaying it, so she doesn’t even try.

She lets the sensation wash through her limbs, lets it carry her somewhere where the entire fabric of the world is Veronica’s kiss, Veronica’s touch, Veronica’s laugh, and Veronica telling her she’s always been the one for her.

Her eyes open to the sight of a lust-laden gaze directed firmly at her, from a girl whose smile tightens her heart with an emotion she can now name. “B, you have like 40 dresses,” Veronica murmurs, licking her kiss-swollen lips, and this is when Betty notices that her hands are wandering the back and sides of her dress, pausing by each knot and bow that (hideously) make up the garment. “Why did you wear the one that’s impossible to open?” Betty feels her heart quicken its pace again at the prospect of Veronica removing her clothes, but her brain is still submerged in a post-sex haze and she doesn’t respond quickly enough before Veronica adds with a warm chuckle, “seriously, this is like armor.”

“It was the only one I could fit my cast through,” Betty finally forces out, eyes roving Veronica’s smile, muscles waking sufficiently now that what she really, really wants is to touch Veronica back. “I wasn’t really expecting anyone to want to take it off tonight.” Her last joke-leaning comment makes Veronica laugh again, and Betty loves this buoyant happiness Veronica has wrapped around her heart. A rush of boldness prompts her to remark teasingly, “your dress on the other hand…”

Veronica leans forward, now within kissing distance again, and murmurs alluringly, “what about my dress?”

Betty narrowly avoids another complete brain shutdown by averting her eyes to the girl’s neck, a place she’s so, so tempted to kiss and bite again—

Oh, shit.

Veronica picks up her change of expression immediately and the way Betty’s widened eyes are fixated on a single area of her neck.

“Don’t tell me,” the girl grumbles with a huff, “I have another hickey, don’t I?”

Swallowing hard, Betty eyes the coin-sized, strawberry-colored mark and considers lying. Makes a terrible attempt, even. “Um… no…?”

“Cheryl is going to make a rug out of us,” Veronica states flatly, reaching out to touch Betty’s chin and biting a corner of her lower lip as though tempted to kiss her. “By the way, did you really use Cheryl to distract Archie?”

Betty responds to Veronica’s fond disbelief with a wry raise of her eyebrow. “Did you really make a deal with Cheryl for her to leave me alone in exchange for you being her vice-captain?”

“Good point.” There’s another laugh, bright and blushing with guilt, and Betty doesn’t resist it this time—she gently pulls Veronica into another kiss, feels the girl smile against her lips and wants to be consumed by this happiness for the rest of her life.

Veronica parts their kiss to ask softly, “when is your curfew?” 

“Ten,” Betty replies distractedly, gaze hopelessly glued to Veronica’s lips. She’s not sure what time it is at that moment, but she arrived at the dance with Jughead and Kevin at 7pm, and no more than an hour must have elapsed since then.

“Want to go on a drive with me?” Veronica proposes with a charming beam, irresistible in that way that’s self-assured and confident and kind, like Veronica herself. 

Betty’s hands itch to touch her, almost impatient with the urge to be inside Veronica again, so she hesitates when she replies weakly, “um, I want… to do something else.”

“What do you want to do?” Veronica queries encouragingly in a voice barely above a whisper. 

She’s not going to risk unthinkingly blurting out the first thing that comes to her mind—like last time—because she wants to seem more composed than she is at the moment. But then Veronica places a feather-light peck on her cheek and Betty’s eyes roam the expanse of her chest and all the other parts of her body that she wants to kiss and she mutters “you… my mouth…”

Veronica’s ensuing chuckle is tinged in equal parts amusement and desire, and she replies, “my plan and what you want are not mutually exclusive, as it happens.” She removes herself from Betty’s lap—Betty can’t help the immediate wave of disappointment at the girl’s absence—and then, once she’s digging through her purse for the car keys, she entices Betty with a mouth-drying wink. “Besides, you don’t know where I’m taking us. I think your mouth will like it.”

\--

Veronica takes Betty to The Pembrooke. To her bed, to be more specific. And all the things Betty had yearned to be reminded of—the sight, the taste, the feel, the moans, and the ragged, labored breathing that always lets Betty know when Veronica is close—Veronica gives her everything she wants. And if Betty pauses at one moment to gape in disbelief at her luck that this is what she gets to do, and this is the person she gets to do it with—only for Veronica to swat her shoulder again and groan with frustration, “oh my God, you’re going to kill me”—well, she doesn’t think anyone would blame her.

In the end, Veronica is right—Betty’s mouth does like it. 

And when it’s a quarter to 10 and Betty wants to break her curfew to watch Veronica come undone underneath her one last time, a half-naked Veronica wrapped solely in a perfumed sheet kisses her again and reminds her that if she incurs her parents’ wrath they will ground her again and that will mean another sex-less, phone-less week, and that is enough incentive for her to hurry along home. Smithers drops her off and she’s barely stepped foot inside her bedroom, and already she’s rushing to FaceTime Veronica because there’s something she needs to say, and she didn’t tell her last time, and she can’t forget to do it again.

 _“Are you going to apologize for the three new hickeys you gave me?”_ Veronica asks teasingly through the phone screen, hair mussed and body still only barely covered by the sheet. _“I’m going to start buying stocks at Sephora, given how many pounds of concealer I’m buying.”_

“No, I was going to tell you that I love you,” Betty admits, blushing despite how well-prepared she’s felt, for a while now, to say this. There’s no hesitation in her voice, no second-guessing. “I do, a lot. But yes, I’m sorry for the hickeys, too. I know how much you don’t like walking around like... how did you phrase it? Like you’ve been mauled by a bear?”

It’s Veronica’s turn to be bashful, cheeks tinged by an adorable shade of pink. _“It’s fine if you’re the bear doing the mauling.”_ There’s no hesitation in her voice either when she beams and reveals, _“and I love you, too.”_

She’s grinning and staring at Veronica’s perfect face and she could do both these things forever, but then she remembers something else. “Hey, are you really reading a Nancy Drew book?”

_“Jughead Jones, you Benedict Arnold.”_

\--

“Betty Cooper.” After finally removing her cast this morning, Betty was allowed to pick up her new uniform from the tailoring shop—and yes, she and Veronica may or may not have taken a slight detour afterwards at Veronica’s place so Betty could “multi-task” with her newly-available hand—before heading for the Vixens’ pre-game rehearsal, and it takes exactly 0.2 seconds after their entry into the auditorium for an indignant Cheryl to march in their direction, Betty immediately freezing in place, an old-habits-die-hard self-preservation reflex. “You can mark her up anywhere between the collarbone and pelvis and yet your mouth chooses to linger on such a highly-visible area as her _neck_?”

Veronica is entirely unfazed by the redhead’s fiercely disapproving glare. “You can barely see it and thanks to the weird quarter-turtleneck you’ve incorporated into our new uniforms, this area isn’t even visible on game days, so relax, Ginny Weasley.”

Cheryl’s temper is only minutely assuaged; she continues to chastise them by remarking dryly, “once your relationship became more established, as it has, I believed the novelty would wear off and these incidents would no longer occur. I was wrong.”

“I’ll be sure to make note of your thoughts on relationship novelty and hickeys,” Veronica retorts easily, reaching behind her back to give Betty’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“Rein in your moronic tendencies, please,” Cheryl orders, rolling her eyes.

“But you make it so difficult.” Clearly, Veronica’s humored, cavalier response to Cheryl’s admonishment is working—the entire conversation has acquired a much lighter, joking tone than Betty could have anticipated. In the most anxiety-ridden parts of her mind, Betty had expected Cheryl to threaten them with expulsion from the squad. 

“How did I come to the conclusion that you were the best choice for the vice-captainship?” It’s the first time Betty’s ever witnessed Cheryl pose a question like this honestly, devoid of any malice. 

“What in quality or act is best, doth seldom on a right foundation rest,” Veronica recites slyly, corner of her mouth quirking as though near laughter. Betty grins automatically—Veronica is taunting Cheryl, and it’s fine. They can do this now.

“Betty, your girlfriend is quoting William Wordsworth in a blatant attempt to evade my reprehension,” a stern Cheryl informs Betty with half-baked annoyance while shooting Veronica an unsubtle side-eyed glance. 

(Girlfriend. Veronica Lodge is actually her girlfriend. To hear it being voiced so casually like this is strange and exhilarating, in the very best way.)

If she had been asked only a week ago what the odds would be that she would be carrying on a civil, friendly conversation with Cheryl Blossom today, Betty would have dismissed the possibility with the sort of incredulity she reserves for online hoaxes. 

And yet, here they are. “She’s charming that way,” Betty responds lightly, trading a warm look with a pleased Veronica beside her. In front of them, Cheryl releases a gagging noise.

“You two are revolting. Get back in formation.” The captain redirects her attention to the rest of the squad, congregated in various stages of warm-up stretches. “Vixens! Your poorly-developed coordination skills are transforming my arrangement into a pattern resembling a Rorschach's inkblot test!”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for reading this story and giving me so much support and encouragement, especially when I'd be overcome by bouts of insecurity and hated everything I was typing. I had absolutely no idea this fic would be liked by so many people. Reading your comments warmed my heart, and your feedback truly made me a better writer. If I could give each of you a hug through my screen, I would. And lastly, I hope this last chapter lived up to everyone's expectations and that you enjoyed our months-long journey with these two lovesick girls.
> 
> P.S. I will now go through each chapter and respond to every comment I didn't get a chance to read before, so if you commented something 5 months ago and suddenly get a notification from AO3, it's probably me :)
> 
> P.P.S. Not sure if this is relevant since this is an AU, but I have not watched an episode of Riverdale since that one in season 1 with Jughead's birthday. So if I wrote anything that turned out to be grossly mismatched with events in canon--besides Beronica, our long-suffering, practically non-existent ship--then please forgive me.
> 
> P.P.P.S. Did anyone ask for an epilogue?


	11. Epilogue

She wakes to the embrace of steady, warm sunlight oozing lazily from between the breeze-blown curtains above her. Disorientation and drowsiness almost pull her back into sleep, but she picks up a low shuffling noise from the edge of her hearing, and turns in bed to catch a hazy sight of Betty, emerging from the bathroom enveloped solely by a towel, balancing a toothbrush in her mouth and a cellphone on one hand.

“V, I’m so sorry; I know you just barely got here, and I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Veronica blinks blearily, is vaguely aware of lips descending upon hers for a fleeting moment. “You still have like 10 minutes before we have to go, so you can nap a little bit more if you want.”

Veronica grunts instead as she sits up on the bed, half-functional brain still attempting to situate itself. “Am I in my room or yours?” she mumbles sleepily, and then looks up to watch Betty rinsing her toothbrush in the sink while undoing a messy bun. 

“Mine,” the girl calls out in response. “Are you going back to sleep while I get dressed?”

Veronica accepts with a heavy, tired spirit, that she will awaken in even worse shape if she attempts to nap again before they have to leave, so she shakes her head with a forlorn sigh. “How was your journalism test?” she asks quietly, apathetically noticing that she’s wearing one of Betty’s pajama shirts. All she had time to do after her all-nighter and subsequent 5-hour block of exams was shower before collapsing on Betty’s bed for a nap totaling—she spares a quick glance at her phone—a disheartening forty minutes.

“It was okay; I think I got a good grade.” Betty is now in her underwear, busily sorting through her closet when she inquires with a sympathetic laugh, “how were your gazillion exams?”

“I am currently 3% human and 97% exhaustion,” Veronica replies haggardly. Betty immediately turns from her closet and makes her way to the dispirited girl with a pitying and concerned smile, standing between Veronica’s legs, which dangle carelessly from the bed.

“Do you want me to make you some coffee or get you a Red Bull before we go? Something to help you wake up?”

Her entire field of vision is now a sunlit picture of blond hair, pink-tinted cheeks, and caring blue eyes that recall an artist’s watercolor rendition of an ocean, and in that moment, it’s difficult to remember any second in her life in which she wasn’t in love with this girl. The stirring inside her chest reminds her of years in which she’s come to love someone so fervently and steadfastly that she hopes for her dreams even more than she hopes for her own. The happiness she carries in her bloodstream reminds her that this girl has somehow managed to erase all the moments of loneliness and self-loathing she’s ever felt, replacing them with a love she’s carved inside her heart. The warmth that grows and expands through her body reminds her that this girl has left footprints in every facet of her life, reaching into her future to change its shape as well. Her heartbeats stutter and she can’t think of anything to do except to murmur “come here, please,” while gently pulling the girl down to kiss her.

Although her initial plan was for a simple, appreciative kiss, Veronica changes course just as quickly when the familiar sweet, pulse-quickening tug begins to coil low in her stomach. Betty’s breathing shallows immediately, and Veronica smiles then because there’s one kind of kissing that always provokes the same reaction from Betty, no matter how many years they’ve been together, and this is it.

The girl pulls away, flushed and licking her lips while half-heartedly shaking her head. “No, V; there’s no time. Cheryl will flashback to Vixen captain mode and yell at us for being late—”

“I’m not doing anything.” Veronica blinks innocently, standing from the bed to slide her hands around Betty’s waist. 

“You’re cute,” Betty mumbles, apparently unable to look away from Veronica’s lips just yet.

“Thank you,” Veronica winks, pulling the girl closer and brushing her fingers against the very tempting strap of her bra. “That’s what my girlfriend always tells me.” Controlling an imminent laugh, she queries with poetic honesty, “say, what did my arms do before they held you?”

“And now you’re quoting Plath,” Betty points out with gentle disapproval, hands nonetheless mirroring Veronica’s in making their way to Veronica’s ribs. “You’re really not giving up, are you?”

The first comment genuinely surprises Veronica, however, and a frown battles a smile for control of her facial expression when she gasps, “wait, you actually read the book I gave you? After telling me it was like watching grass grow?” Betty’s ensuing blush sends a flutter through her chest, makes her plant a quick kiss on the girl’s cheek. “I am positively swooning—here I was, thinking you couldn’t get any hotter.”

Betty’s weak scoff, reinforced by the fact that her hands are still tracing the lines of her abdomen, let Veronica know that in their good-humored, teasing tug-of-war, she’s winning. “You know what _I’m_ thinking?” Betty retorts in a low voice, eyes darting to Veronica’s smirk. “That you,” the blond accuses with a murmur, “are flirting with me to try to get out of having dinner with Cheryl.”

“I would never,” Veronica defends in exaggerated shock, sitting once again on the bed and maintaining eye contact with Betty as she leans forward slowly to plant a kiss on the girl’s thigh. “What an absurd, outrageous allegation.”

Betty’s breathing visibly hitches, her resistance clearly dissolving the longer she maintains her gaze on Veronica.

Veronica likes winning. Loves it, even. But what she loves most is Betty.

She lowers the girl’s underwear only a fraction of an inch and kisses the newly exposed flesh with warm, lingering lips. “V, what are you doing?” Betty whispers, hand automatically burying itself in Veronica’s hair just as Veronica licks a stripe from the girl’s bellybutton to her hip, teeth scraping the heated skin.

“Waking myself up.”

\--

“Okay, so when we walk in and she starts yelling at us,” a mildly panicked Betty strategizes hurriedly just as they arrive at Magnolia’s storefront, “we tell her that our Uber guy got lost—”

Veronica interrupts her with a slow shake of her head, possessing only a fraction of the girl’s worry, “we’ve used that excuse already, and no self-respecting New Yorker would ever get lost on their way to Magnolia from NYU. How about I say that you forgot your coat and we had to go back to get it—”

It’s Betty’s turn to protest with indignation, “why are we blaming me again?”

“Because we already blamed me last time,” Veronica argues, unable to help a laugh at her girlfriend’s scandalized gasp.

“That’s because it _was_ your fault last time. I was literally at the doorway, stepping out, and you started taking your clothes off— _Cheryl_ , hi,” Betty chokes out, and Veronica has to purse her lips to contain another laugh from witnessing a hilarious display of Betty’s residual fear of their former cheerleading captain.

Cheryl has emerged from the bakery to join them at the sidewalk, shrouded in the particular brand of patrician self-possession that Veronica is absolutely certain will always be one of her defining characteristics.

“A mere 10 minutes late today instead of the customary twenty,” she comments airily, assessing both an apprehensive Betty and a smirking Veronica. “Must have been a quick one,” she quips, turning on her heel and holding the door for the two girls.

“Or maybe I’m just really good,” Veronica retorts lightly, and then meets Cheryl’s eye with shared amusement when Betty coughs with embarrassment.

“So, anyway,” a flustered Betty, predictably and adorably, rushes to change the subject as they take their seats around one of the bakery’s tables, “how’s everything at Columbia? And how’s Archie?”

“Archie has requested that I extend you both an invitation to his upcoming showcase at Ithaca,” Cheryl discloses with a pleased smile. “We may carpool if you two would like.”

“Is it like a gig? But on the Ithaca campus?” Betty queries with interest while Veronica takes a most welcome sip of coffee—and inwardly thanks Cheryl for having the foresight of ordering ahead of their arrival. 

“With his fellow classmates in the music program, yes,” Cheryl replies, brows furrowing as she spots the beginning of a laugh from Betty.

“So… it’s a recital, basically.”

Veronica averts her face to stifle a laugh and then yelps when Cheryl kicks her under the table.

“Your marked influence on your girlfriend is horrifying, Lodge. And not all of us can date business slash economics double-majors, Cooper,” Cheryl asserts with an annoyed, albeit dignified roll of her eyes. “Besides, I’m intelligent enough for the both of us.”

As she reaches for a spoonful of banana pudding, Veronica amends cheekily, “and the interests of biological diversity would also like to thank you both for single-handedly ensuring the continuation of the redhead gene,” much to Betty’s delight.

“In other pertinent news, I have re-decorated my apartment to incorporate my latest Baroque leanings, in case any of you would like to appreciate my artistic achievement,” Cheryl resumes, elegantly retrieving a portion of the pudding as well.

“Sure; just let us know when we can drop by so I don’t have to walk in on you FaceTiming Archie naked like last time,” Betty affirms with a shudder as Veronica bursts into laughter again and Cheryl’s jaw drops with the affront. “I’ve barely gotten over the psychological scars—”

“As you recover from what must have been a truly _traumatizing_ incident,” Cheryl interrupts with thinly-veiled sarcasm, “I must remind you of the time you two almost were _arrested_ by your campus police and narrowly avoided being charged with indecent exposure for having sex in public.”

Betty’s eyes are widened almost comically when she turns to Veronica, who is still laughing and barely manages to explain, “we were not having sex. I was just showing Betty around.”

“Around what? Your vulva? It was your first week at NYU as well— _you_ didn’t even know your way around.”

Likely at the memory of the mortifying incident, Betty slides a hand inside Veronica’s as it rests on her leg, prompting her to turn and exchange an intimate smile of mutual bashfulness.

“Ugh. No less nauseating than usual, I see,” a grimacing Cheryl remarks, noticing their sentimental moment.

Betty instantly reverts to impudence when she points out boldly, “your boyfriend asked you to prom through skywriting, Cheryl—I don’t think you can talk about us being cheesy.”

“And don’t forget, Kim Possible,” Veronica complements, while Betty smiles in appreciation for her reinforcements, “he named his guitar Bombshell and sang to you at graduation.”

With an astute, calculated pause, Cheryl gathers her own ammunition, and Veronica is warmed by a wave of content because they’ve grown together and learned together and even if Cheryl’s less cordial edges have been polished by the years of their friendship, these moments in which they argue harmlessly remind her of Riverdale. “You,” Cheryl begins with the trademark precision, pointing a flawlessly-manicured finger at a thoroughly entertained Veronica, “flew over a burger from Pop’s when Betty said she missed home. And you,” the accusatory finger switches to Betty, “had to be talked into getting that arrow tattoo on your arm instead of Veronica’s initials.” With a grand, sophisticated sigh, Cheryl leans back into her seat and crosses her arms with satisfaction. “Lastly, you two practically live together—would have, in fact, lived together, if your sorority didn’t have a rule prohibiting couples from being roommates. Thus… it would be wise to resign yourselves to the undeniable fact that you two are indeed the more revolting of us.”

Veronica applies a gentle squeeze to Betty’s hand under the table while offering Cheryl a noncommitted shrug. “We’ll let you have this one only because we know for a fact that the last song Archie wrote is called ‘My Love’s Hair Matches Mine’ and we can’t wait to listen to what is undoubtedly a lyrical masterpiece.”

This time, Cheryl kicks them both.


End file.
